


sea you, sea me

by shyflowersbloom



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Both of them, Comfort, Fluff, Grief, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, PTSD, Pining, Sharing a Bed, and not so emotionally distant keith, keith is fond, lance sings a lot, lots of hugs bc i'm weak, my cuban son, not that most of you care about that anyway, starring the mcclain fam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-01-31 15:51:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21448753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shyflowersbloom/pseuds/shyflowersbloom
Summary: The war is over, but there are still battles to be fought. Ghosts that follow, grief that lingers.When Lance returns to his family in Cuba, he brings along a special guest. Keith may not have much experience when it comes to the whole family thing, but soon finds in them a home. More than that. He finds a place to stay.~One bite, and it's like sunshine on Keith's tongue. It's warm, gooey, crisp. Everything anyone could ask for in a perfect waffle.“Here you go.”Mouth still full, Keith looks up. Lance. Lance brought him coffee?“Uh. Thanks. Lance.”He takes it quickly, so he won't have time to linger in this strange twist of a feeling that has bloomed in his chest. At his touch, the mug is just the right temperature, and the smell alone is enough for him to temporarily forget about his waffles.One sip. Likely, doesn't mean anything, Lance getting him coffee. Another sip. Keith is a guest after all. The third drink goes down with a gulp. No one else made a comment.  Did they even notice? Of course not. Keith is the only one that would overthink something so trivial, so domestic, so not worth overthinking.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 251





	1. Day One: Where Home Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a heads up there is very brief mention of minor character death
> 
> there are bits of dialogue and narrative in Spanish, but i am not a fluent speaker by any means. please do let me know if you come across errors so i may correct them.
> 
> and yes, i know this is not canon compliant. the first draft of this baby started long before season 7 dropped. i have made effort to squeeze lance's canonical family in, though. enjoy for what it is, i guess. *finger guns*

In other worlds, it's easy to lose sight of time. When the sun becomes a star in a million, and a day is no longer twenty-four hours, seconds become ticks that slip away like sand through fingers.

Lance finds it hard to believe three entire earth years have passed since the Blue Lion zipped their group of five through that first wormhole. But Pidge did the math, and there isn't much room to fight her when it comes to numbers.

All that time, Lance dreamt of little else but coming back to the arms of his family. Three years is a long time to wait, even when you're distracted with defeating an evil, intergalactic empire.

So much waiting certainly warrants the tears that spill from his eyes when his Mamá swallows him in an embrace. The pain that has nested inside ebbs away, and leaves something bright in his chest.

“Mi hijo ha regresado.” Mamá is reluctant to release him, but finally draws back, if only to look him over for the thousandth time. Fresh tears creep down her sun browned cheeks. “How is it possible you've gotten even taller?”

“I guess I did, Mamá,” Lance replies, voice hoarse. “Or you have grown much shorter.” Because he has to bend down to place a kiss to her forehead. They both let out a watery laugh, and that brightness flickers brighter.

It is then he remembers he hasn't come alone. There is a shadow that lingers beneath the frame of the open front door. Half in, half out, like they might slip away at any given moment as if they were never there in the first place. Lance pipes up before they can give in to any such temptation. “I need to introduce you to someone.” Lance reaches over and places a hand heavy on his fellow paladin's shoulder. “Mamá, this is Keith.”

Keith's arms tighten across his chest, before he opens the closed stance with an extended hand. “It's an honor to meet you, Mrs. McClain.”

Mamá disregards the gloved hand, and instead wraps her arms around a startled Keith. “Bienvenido.” She pulls away but allows a hand to linger on his chin, to examine him much in the same manner she had her son. Her eyes snag on the dark mark that mars the right side of his jaw. “I have you to thank for helping my child come home to us. For that, I can't ever thank you enough.”

“You shouldn't give me so much credit.” Keith ducks his head, away from her touch, allowing dark hair to conceal his face from her gaze. “Without your son, I wouldn't be standing here either.”

Lance observes the exchange wordlessly. Gratitude swells inside him. After all, it's true. They made it, both of them, because they pushed through together. Even when Keith stepped down from his place among the team, it'd done little to make him less a member of the odd family they'd grown into. And now that Keith piloted the Black Lion, everyone could plainly see what Lance had known for quite a while. They simply couldn't do without him.

It didn't matter that the war was over. It was still true. During their plans to return to Earth, Allura organized the team so each member would be paired up. Everyone would have a place to stay, and _no one_ would be alone. Lance would never admit it to anyone else, especially Keith, that he had talked her into putting the two of them together. He'd pestered her every chance he got, until she finally shook her head and gave in. It hadn't been a way to get out of spending time with either Altean. Coran was like his odd space uncle now, and he adored the Princess. It was just. . . He'd wanted Keith to be with a family. A large family. _His_ family. Lance figured out of everyone, Keith deserved to feel the least alone.

Feet bound down the stairway. There is scuffling, and maybe a little shoving. What could aptly be described as a stampede, is headed straight for him.

“Lance is back!”

“Let me hug him first!”

Marco disregards his sister's plea, and meets Lance with such force they both stumble backward. Keith shies away, in order not to get caught as the brothers fumble for balance, both clinging to each other, their grip so tight it's hard to breathe.

Lance wouldn't have it any other way. This is his _family._

Little feet in unicorn slippers shuffle closer, and there is an insistent tug at the leg of his jeans. Marco finally lets go so Lance can scoop his niece into his arms. He remembers the last time he held her curled against his chest like this. For a moment, they simply study each other, and Lance's heart sinks, because it didn't occur to him until now that it's possible she doesn't remember him. “Hi, Nadya.”

“Haven't I gotten bigger since the last time you saw me, tío Lance? I'm six years tall now.”

“Wow.” His relief spurs a chuckle. “Six years _is_ pretty tall.”

Nadya offers a big smile, and a sticky kiss to his cheek. This prompts Lance to wipe at the strawberry jelly on her face. “I'm glad you're back,” she says shyly, and pokes her nose into his neck.

Lance returns her slippered feet to the hardwood floor. “Me too.”

As he straightens, he's met with another hug, this one soft, with the scent of cinnamon festering between them. Rachel brushes a strand of inky hair back as tears form, caught by her thick eyelashes. “I knew you'd come back,” she rasps in his ear, too overcome to say more.

Nadya tugs at his hand this time. “Who is that?”

Lance dabs at his eyes with the hem of his jacket's sleeve, and clears his throat enough to get out the next round of introductions. Keith shifts on his feet, gaze flickering from his friend to the floorboards. “He's going to be staying with us for a little while.”

There's a beat of quiet, and Keith looks nothing less than cornered. Lance feels guilty, because it was his idea to bring him here, and it must be overwhelming, and this isn't _half_ his family. But Keith is just as much family as they are, and in time, hopefully sooner rather than later, they'll all be able to be family together.

The awkward silence is abruptly resolved with a flash and the appearance of Cosmo. Of course she'd never use the door like a normal dog. . . there was nothing normal about a cosmic wolf. She blips into existence, falling right into Keith's arms.

The sudden weight causes him to teeter, close to losing his balance. Everyone else startles, and Nadya lets out a shriek.

“WHAT IS THAT?”

“Is it alien?” Marco asks.

“Yeah,” Lance says. “This is Keith's space wolf.”

“I'm sorry.” Keith shifts his grip on Cosmo, and she slaps a wet kiss against his cheek. “I uh, told her to stay outside. . . I think she's kinda jittery. She's never been on Earth before.”

“No es un problema,” Mamá says with a shake of her head. “You don't need to apologize. The children have had more kittens in this house than I can count, and turtles, chickens, and baby goats. Another animal won't do much harm.”

Nadya has recovered from the fright, and now stares up, transfixed by the strange creature. “She's _sooo_ pretty.”

Cosmo goes _poof_ and reappears in front of her. And because she is a large animal, and Nadya is very small, they end up eye to eye. Instead of screaming, this time the girl beams, and pets the cloudy blue fur between Cosmo's alert ears.

“Nana! I pet a space doggie!”

Keith crouches, his hand wandering down Cosmo's back. “I think she likes you.”

Mamá's eyes wrinkle with a smile. “You must be tired, the both of you. Marco will show you to your room.”

Rachel sweeps Nadya up onto her hip and gently tweeks her nose. “Time for you to take a nap too, mi cielito.”

Her short arms grapple in the air. “But I want to play with tío Keith's perrito!”

Keith's brows draw together, considering. “I think Cosmo is tired, too. Maybe she would sleep better if you were with her?”

“Oh _pleeeease _tía! I want to be with the doggie!”

Cosmo looks expectantly up at Rachel, who pauses on the bottom of the stairs. Her dark eyes consider the wolf, then Keith, who offers a subtle nod. She finally lets out a dramatic sigh. “Fine.”

Keith pats his wolf before he gets back to his feet. “Follow, Cosmo.”

Although “follow” apparently means teleporting to the top of the stairway. Her thick tail thumps in anticipation against the floor as she waits for the girls to catch up.

Lance elbows him. “I didn't know you could be good with children.”

Keith folds his arms. “I deal with you all the time, don't I?”

A bubbly laugh comes from Mamá, and Marco looks much too pleased. Lance just huffs, pretending to be offended when he's actually elated. He was right. Keith will fit in just fine here.

They both lift their duffel bags from the welcome mat. There isn't much inside either one. It's not as if they carried a suitcase with them to space. Most of Lance's things are souvenirs, trinkets he kept to give as gifts to his family, and the video game he and Pidge bought their first trip to the space mall.

He's not sure what could be in Keith's. Knives, or something, probably.

As Lance passes Mamá, she reaches out to give his free hand a squeeze. “The two of you rest up, okay? Then for dinner, we'll have supper and a bonfire on the beach.”

The mention of sand and waves lights his face up. Not to mention real, authentic Earth food. It doesn't matter what it is, hotdogs or steak, it will be heavenly. There's no doubt in his mind, beyond his family, food might be what he missed most. “Yes, Mamá.” He offers his cheek for a quick kiss from her, before he follows Marco upstairs.

He never imagined he'd miss the creaky bottom step, or the narrow stairway that leads to his drafty room in the attic. But he missed this old house. He missed it all.

There's little reason for Marco to lead the way to Lance's own room, but they enjoy simply being in the presence of each other. They had shared this bedroom until their oldest brother Luis moved out and Marco took his bigger room on the second floor.

A sense of home and tangible memories swell around Lance as he enters, as he steps over the carpet, blue like the ocean. He takes in the same sloped ceiling, the same circular window that overlooks the shore. He has traveled to galaxies where Earth is an unknown, where phenomena are mundane, to nebula so beautiful it could strike one to silence. But this? This is a view Lance would never think less than priceless.

Marco flicks on the light with a short _click_, which better illuminates the space. “Most of your things are boxed up in the unfinished half of the attic.” He motions to the curtained off portion.

Lance lowers his bag to the floor, and gives the room another sweep. All his surf and movie posters have been taken down, and most of his books, all his comics, and his rock collection he'd kept since he was nine are missing from the shelves that take up the left cleft of the room. At first it irritates him, to have every trace of him swept away like that. Then he glances at Marco, silent, something unreadable in his eyes as he stares into the exposed timber that supports the roof. The pair shared this space since they were seven and twelve respectively. Through thunderstorms in the night, through afternoons spent drawing treasure maps, through tussles and bear hugs. If Lance had lost Marco that way, the way _he'd_ disappeared, he couldn't blame his brother for removing what painful reminders he could.

It's while his back is turned, while he's allowing sentimental thoughts to run through his mind, that Marco grapples to get him in a headlock, and promptly ruffles his hair to a state beyond repair. “Good to have you back, baby bro.”

Lance attempts to pry himself free, and it catches them both a bit off guard when it succeeds. In the past, he never quite could. Though admittedly, the paladin's strength has increased with training, exercise, and just defending the universe in general. “Try and call me the baby _one_ more time–”

“Knock knock.” Rachel bursts through the door, lugging a stack of fresh sheets and extra blankets. It's piled so high, it obscures her view enough she nearly plows Keith over. “Oops, lo siento! Sorry.” She sets her load at the foot of the bottom bunk. “Mamá said to bring these up for you guys.”

Lance yelps when Marco tussles his hair again. “Want me to tuck you in tonight, champ?”

“Shut up.” Lance crosses his arms, and his gaze comes to rest on Keith, who still shadows the doorway. “Hey, aren't you gonna come in?”

Keith shifts, seeming uncomfortable with all their attention suddenly aimed at him. He takes a tentative step forward and settles his bag on the carpet beside Lance's. He takes a deep breath, as if to gather himself. “Thanks for letting me stay. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, you're welcome, or whatever. We all know Lance would have thrown a tantrum if we said no. . . not that we would've.”

Lance shoots his brother a glower, and considers putting him in his own headlock, or possible pinning Marco to the floor altogether. He's probably strong enough now that he could. Instead, he turns back to Keith and forces a pleasant tone. “So, you want top or bottom?”

Marco slides toward the door with a grimace. “Gross? You can't wait five seconds for your siblings to get out?”

“The bunk beds, obviously. Marco, don't you have homework or something you should be doing?”

“I'm not 12.”

“Debatable.”

“Come on, Marc,” Rachel intervenes. “We should give them some alone time.”

“Yes, _Mom,” _Marco says.

She breaks poise to stick her tongue out at him. The two pass through the door, but she pauses with a hand on the doorknob. “See you both at supper.” Then slyly, “have _fun–”_

Lance snatches a pillow to chuck across the room. It thumps against the door, where her face had once been, but it's already shut.

Keith gives him an odd look, before retrieving the pillow from the floor. He studies it for a moment before he speaks. “Your family seems nice.”

“I know Marco can be a butt sometimes but once he thinks he's established dominance you two should get along just fine.”

“What?”

Lance kicks his shoes off and shrugs. “It's a big brother thing.”

“I'll take your word for it, then.” Keith follows suit, and tugs off his boots. They end up neatly tucked in the corner, while Lance's are sprawled in the middle of the floor. “Your family is fine, Lance. You don't need to apologize about any of them.” He looks troubled, though with Keith, that's hardly a rarity.

Lance stretches into the bed, his gaze caught on the slats of the bunk above. “. . . Keith?”

“I'm listening.”

“I'm. . . sorry about your mom.”

Keith turns his back, and stoops to unzip his duffel bag. It's red, and even though he pilots the Black Lion now, it still fits. He'll always be red to Lance.

The now Red Paladin props himself on an elbow in his pillow, to put the boys near the same eye level. “I don't know, you can hate me for this if you want, but I thought my family might help. . . or make it worse, I guess. I dunno.” He holds his breath in the silence that follows, and eventually bites into his bottom lip. Perhaps he'd gone too far. Too personal? Too soft? Once, Lance might have said about anything he wanted and known it was alright. After Shiro went missing, for a while they'd been undeniably close. When the two had finally set aside their rivalry to hold up the team. But that had been over an entire Earth year ago. Now?

“Keith? Are you alright?”

He still doesn't answer.

“I mean, I'm not expecting them to replace what you lost. That's not what I meant.” Lance prods the duvet, a bit of gray to break up the blue of the space. “I just thought maybe. . .”

Some of the tension leaves Keith's shoulders, and he gives a quick glance over his shoulder. “Thanks, Lance.”

“You still didn't answer my question.”

“Right.” Keith seems to consider for a moment. “I'll take top.”

Lance turns his head away, deciding it wise not to probe further. Though he doesn't think it's healthy for Keith to close himself off the way he has. No one should grieve alone. Just because he didn't know his mother long doesn't mean it isn't still a tremendous loss. He shouldn't have to bottle it up. Though Lance supposes it's a bit different, seeing as Keith was Keith to begin with. He has always seemed evasive. To push against what is vulnerable.

Lance thinks within this small, curious moment, that maybe Keith doesn't know how to do it any other way.

“That's cool with me. Seeing as I'm already pretty comfortable right here,” Lance finally says.

“Cool.”

Lance lowers into his pillow, and rolls to put the rest of the room at his back. His hand grips the corner of the pillowcase and stares at the stitches along the edge. He listens as Keith climbs into his own bunk to settle in for a nap. Though the boy is sleeping in his jacket like a heathen.

It's not long before he catches the whisper of slow, deep breathing above him.

Lance stretches his long legs to the end of the bed, then curls in on himself, shifting in his pillow to try and find a comfortable position. It feels good to be home. Better than good. It's _perfect._ There's a calm here he didn't realize he misplaced. Only still, he has this deep tension. One that begins in his bones and binds his muscles, like his body doesn't know how to completely relax anymore. How does Keith do it? Fall asleep just like that? Lance tries, but he can't. When his eyes close, he can see the war.

The boy that used to lay in this bed, in this house on the beach, vanished somehow, though he doesn't know exactly when. He isn't the boy that spent summer days solely on the shore, or that played stupid pranks on the other cadets at the Garrison. Now he is someone different. Only he isn't quite sure what that means. Does he know who he is anymore? Does he really belong here anymore?

There's only one way to find out, really.

Somehow, perhaps with a bit of assistance from the waves that roll outside the window, or the soft pillow tucked under his chin, or even the steady breathing from the bunk above, he drifts into a warm sleep. For a moment his worries slip away, like waves running back to the sea.

~

A crushing weight gathers on his chest. Lance stirs, seized with the fear that a galra general has found him in sleep and pinned him down. A face, lavender, marred by battle, and alight with eyes like coals haunt him. His heart thrums, as if to break free, or to deafen his ears to the sound of his own cry. Lance blinks, and the dark mirage flees.

Nadya's brown eyes widen, the picture of innocence gazing down at him. So small, and warm, and completely precious. She couldn't be further from the phantom in his dream. “Tío Lance? Are you over your nap?”

“Uh.” When he shifts up, her small frame curls into place in his lap. This position suits much better for his lungs. “What are you doing?”

Now her gaze tilts straight up at him, voice hushed with that adorable shyness. “Remember when you used to sing to me?” She manages to get a hold of his wrist as she speaks. “Do you still know how?”

There's a childishness to the moment, yet the young girl's eyes hold so much knowing. Lance brings his free hand to the soft curve of her shoulders, as if to wrap her up and keep forever. His other hand winds tighter around her delicate fingers, a lighter shade of skin that contrasts with his own. “I guess there's only one way to find out.” If he could manage to get rid of the lump that's formed in his throat, that is.

“_Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter.”_

Nadya's eyes scrunch as she lights up to the soft melody, and Lance thinks her smile might just be the prettiest thing he's ever seen.

“_Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here.”_ Lance tilts his head to see the orange beams of a beginning sunset stretch across the floor. _“Here comes the sun, and I say–”_

“It's all right,” she coos in unison.

He sings another verse, then stills. Her perfect soft lips smack a kiss against the back of his hand. “You have the most beautiful voice I've ever heard.”

“You're not too bad yourself, chica.”

Her weight shifts and a small hand and knee dig into his ribs. She's almost too big to be sitting in laps anymore, and Lance still remembers when she wasn't allowed up the narrow stairs to the attic alone, for fear she'd tip over and hurt herself. She isn't a baby anymore. His little Nadya has started to blossom into a young lady, with her mom's smile, and her Nana's soft words.

Lance runs a hand through her mess of auburn hair. “Did Mamá send you to fetch me?”

“Oh, I remember now. She said that supper will be soon.”

“Bien! Tengo hambre.” Lance enjoys the roll of Spanish on his tongue. In space, he'd been the only one to speak it, so there was little reason to. Now he's back home, and he has an entire family to listen. Though Nadya's knowledge of the language is a bit limited, she still nods in understanding when he tells her he'll been down soon.

Lance rolls out of bed as she closes the door behind her. The muscles in his back stretch in a pleasant way as his hands lift high above his head and his spine arches. Despite his bad dream, he managed to have a restful nap, and he's ready to go running down to the beach. But first, he needs to put on his swimming trunks, and more importantly, find his old board.

He turns to face the navy sheet that has been stitched into a curtain and strung at the midpoint of the attic. As he does so, he catches sight of Keith watching him from between the railing of the top bunk. His heart hiccups, startled, but he quickly recovers. “Have you been awake long?”

“Yeah.”

Lance sets out to draw the curtain back, which reveals boxes, and old lamps, and a bike that has been waiting for repairs since he was ten. “Guess you heard about supper, then.”

“I did.”

A careless elbow bumps a box balanced on an antique dresser. It tumbles, and out comes a mess of old shoes in just about every size one could imagine. “Ouch.”

“I was thinking of staying in here for awhile.”

“What?” Lance whirls around, and whips the curtain back, if a bit dramatically. “Uh, no. Dude my family needs to meet you! You can't hide forever, you know. And plus, I was going to get out my surfboard. I can teach you, if you don't know how. It'll be fun, I swear.”

“Lance.”

Whatever Keith is trying to imply with that tone, flies over Lance's head because he's finally spotted what he's been searching for. “I've got it!” It's a bit cumbersome to maneuver through the cramped storage, but he emerges with the yellow board, two wide white stripes running down the length, and a huge grin to go with it.

Keith has pulled the covers back up over his head. “You can go ahead without me.”

Sure. Lance could do just as he asked, but what would be the fun in that? The very thought of giving up an opportunity to give his mullet headed friend a hard time is inconceivable. So he props his board against the bookshelf and drifts over to the bed.

The bottom bunk is a full instead of a twin, so there is enough room for him to step up onto the mattress, and if he stretches on tip toe, he can look into the top bunk. He's met with a stubborn glare, and dark, wild hair that's just about as rebellious as Keith is currently acting.

Their sudden closeness makes Lance's heart stutter, and his grip on the railing tightens. Before he can catch runaway thoughts, he can't help but admire the silver flecks in Keith's eyes.

The sight is alluring in a way that makes his chest constrict and his knees weaker. But as always, he has to brush it away. Maybe a part of him still believes someday this will stop. That he won't notice these things the way he does now, that he won't care this way anymore.

But someday is not today.

“C'mon, man,” Lance says. “I've seen you face down Zarkon. A McClain family supper isn't nearly that scary.”

“I'm not scared.”

“Yeah? Then prove it.”

~

It's a live thing, the sea. Lance has known this since he was knee high. He digs toes into the sand, white and hot, a sensation he's yearned for like you do the hug of an old friend. It's a windy day, battering and warm like puffs of breath from the clouds. The breeze tussles his hair and knocks into his lungs. Alive. Dancing.

Lance opens his eyes. Even in the wind, he catches the tail end of Rachel and Marco's latest dispute. This time, it just happens to be on where to build the fire.

It's funny the things you can get lonesome for. But somehow the familiar back and forth swings him into the dreamy sensation that everything is just as it should be.

Well, almost everything.

Lance glances over to where Keith has perched on a shoal of rocks. He'd changed into his Altean trunks and a black tank, but was careful to choose a dry place to settle down. His gaze is caught on the ocean, wrapped so much in his mind he's seemingly oblivious to the activity going on around him.

Cosmo lopes along where the waves lap the shore, leaving behind huge paw prints in the wet sand. It's a bit surprising she's not at Keith's side, though he can understand her fascination with the sea. They didn't exactly have one where she grew up. She pauses long enough to shake some salt water out her thick mane. It makes Lance smile that even a space wolf can feel at home here, on his beach.

But Keith? He's probably wishing he were anywhere else. Does he even like the beach? The ocean? His family? Maybe he should have listened when Allura told him this might not be the best idea.

Mamá exits the house, cooler in tow as she makes her way down the thin, winding path to the sand. The screen door lazily swings shut, then opens enough for little Nadya to slip out. She hurries on bare feet, pigtails caught in the salt air, to catch the hem of her Nana's dress. “Did you bring the blue kool-aid? That's Lance's favorite.”

“Sí, pequeño.” Mamá settles the cooler near where Rachel has finally consented to build the fire pit. Marco is knelt in the sand, fanning the first flickers of the flame and shields it with a careful hand from the wind.

Perhaps Lance is caught a little too much in his head too, because he doesn't take notice of Nadya until she startles him with a tiny hand slipping into his own. She points to the body of water with the other. “Are you going to swim, tío Lance?”

“Do fish swim?” he asks brightly.

Her voice is soft, and glittery like the sun around them. “May I come with you?”

“Of course. Fish swim better together, right?”

“Then will _he_ come too?” Nadya turns her big brown eyes up to where Keith roosts. “Does he like to swim like you?”

“I'm not sure.” Lance shrugs, then allows the corners of his mouth to quirk mischievously. “Why don't you go and ask him?”

Already, he's seen enough to tell Keith has a soft spot for the kid, and he seems to be on the cusp of proving this to be mutual. It makes the sun's warmth seep a little deeper, to think the two could be close one day. Maybe that day isn't too far off, either.

Nadya's short legs and arms strain to climb the rocks, and her little form crawls over to sit beside Keith. Lance waits a tick, lets her soften him up with whatever sweet things happen to come out her mouth this time, before he follows in her footsteps and scales the face of rock.

“–please come out into the water with us, tío Keith?”

As Lance crouches beside her, Keith shoots him a look over her head. One that clearly says _I know what you're trying to do. _ Lance aims a smug smile back. Doesn't matter if he sees through his plan. It _still_ works.

That's how they end up waist high, the ocean lapping at them. Nadya has opted to piggyback on Lance, and squeals as a wave rises to meet them. Lance throws his arms out, like the sea is coming in for a big bear hug. Nadya's arms tighten around his neck, and her legs kick, which sends a spray of water at Keith.

His arms fly up to shield himself. “Hey!”

Cosmo barks from shore, though it sounds less like a complaint and more like a laugh.

“They're ocean kisses,” Nadya offers, and doesn't seem the least bit sorry.

Keith stares at her for a moment, as if stunned by such pure, concentrated cuteness. “Uh. Wow. That's. . .”

“GET 'EM.” Lance whips back an arm to rile up a splash, much bigger than what Nadya had. In fact, it doesn't take long before Keith is completely, hopelessly drenched.

“Hey,” Keith says, voice rising over the sound of wild splashes from both Lance and Nadya. “Hey, cut it out!”

“EAT FISH POOP, MULLET.”

“The ocean loves you, tío Keith!”

“That's not fair, two against one. Hey? Hey, Lance!” His eyes screw shut and his hair plasters to his face and neck. He tries to fight back, but he's right. One is no match against this pair. “OK. I surrender!” His arms shoot up above his head, as a wave comes to nudge them closer to shore. “I give up, alright?”

Nadya breaks into gales of laughter, her grip on her uncle growing slack because she can't bring herself to stop laughing. Lance has to grab hold of her arms to keep her from slipping under, and her nose tickles into the crook of his neck.

When he looks over at Keith, his breath catches. Because when's the last time Keith has _ever_ smiled that way? The part that really gets him though? Is that Keith is beaming that way at _him._

Lance finds his gaze sticking, mesmerized by the droplets that roll down pale skin, and toned arms. Keith has to push back dark hair to see but the way his eyes sparkle, like there's _life_ in them, has Lance drowning in a way that has nothing to do with the ocean.

Nadya finally calms herself enough to speak between gasping breaths. “We won, tío Lance.”

“Heck yeah!” He offers the palm of his hand up for a five, which she soundly slaps. “We make a good team.”

A barrage of honks tugs their attention back to shore, where a pick up truck full of McClains is in the process of unloading onto the beach. Tall and short, dark and light, round and stick thin, and they're all– _all of them– _family. Lance strains his neck, to try and get a better look at who each one is. He recognizes Luis and his wife Lisa, and what must be little Sylvio grown much taller, and Lance's uncle Jake, now walking with a cane.

Something lonesome twists in his gut.

Nadya can hardly contain her excitement. She squirms down his back, and lands with a splash at his side. Her head pops up as she begins to stroke forward, and Lance's heart jumps for a moment, before he sees she's perfectly capable of getting to shore by herself. Before he left, and she was still learning to toddle, he promised her he'd teach her to swim.

Guess he missed that boat.

She reaches ankle deep, takes two steps with a splash then hits the sand running. Small, wet footprints are left behind as she hurries over to where the others gather around the fire, which has grown to a good size by now. The flames dance in the dying light of day, and the sound of animated talking (mostly in Spanish) and laughter drifts lazily toward the boys, still standing amidst the waves.

Lance turns to Keith, who is staring at the group as well. The smile has disappeared, replaced by something guarded and quiet. “Hey.”

“Yeah?” Keith says.

“You want to take out my board?” Lance pretends that it's for Keith's sake, and not because he's gotten skittish about joining the party himself. “We don't have to try anything fancy. Just paddle out a ways.”

“Sure,” Keith supplies. “That sounds good to me.”

“Great,” Lance tries not to sound _too_ relieved. “I'll just grab my board.”

They move toward the sand, and Lance spots where he left his board resting near an outcropping of rocks. Cosmo does a little dance as they come closer, her eyes smiling at Keith in particular.

When they come to ankle deep water, Keith drags his tank up, the wet fabric sticking in ways that causes Lance to have a sudden infestation of butterflies. He pulls the garment over his head and tosses it further up the beach, where the waves won't snag it and pull it back out. Cosmo chases after it, and Keith snorts.

“_Now_ you know how to fetch.” He runs a hand through dark, dripping hair, the muscles in his chest and arms now fully exposed and a beautiful assault on Lance's quickly fading sanity.

So he responds the only way he can, and abruptly turns, his sights now set stubbornly on his surfboard. Once he's a few yards away, he releases a long, jittery breath. As he retrieves the board from its resting place in the dry sand, his stomach does another flop. It suddenly seems very not large enough, and he begins to dread being forced in such proximity with Keith.

Another gale of laughter explodes around the fire, which prompts Lance to hurry back to the water. He's not sure why he has cold feet about joining his family. Maybe Keith's lone wolf syndrome is contagious? Or maybe. . . he's just scared to see all the other ways his family has changed since he's been gone.

The water skims the seamless surface of the board, which nearly looks golden in this light, and Lance walks it past the dips and little waves until they're far enough out. Keith watches with a hint of fascination, and drifts slowly behind, until the other motions him closer. “Here, you can go ahead and get on.” Lance pats a place toward the nose of the board, then shifts to help steady it while Keith finds his balance. Which is easier said than done.

“AH.” Keith tips head first into the water, and quickly pops back up with a sour expression.

Lance chuckles a bit before he can think better of it. “Hey, that's OK. Just try again. You want me to help you?”

“No.”

So he tries again, this time managing to straddle the board with a bit of wobble and a lot less splashing.

“Great!” Lance comes up at the tail of the board. “You might wanna lean forward a little when I get on, because the weight will shift back.”

Somehow, they end up balanced, rocking only with the waves. Lance is low against the board, and feels something like a drop of pure sun warm his chest at the familiar stretch of his arms as he starts to paddle forward. The way the water connects with his limbs, the way the sea carries them away from the shore. When he closes his eyes, he swears it really is alive.

Wow. He missed this.

Even if it takes him awhile to admit it, at some point they have to stop. And perhaps Lance gets a little carried away, because they're farther out now than he realized. The space around them is softer here, the waves an energy that rolls and dips almost like they've become a part of it. They've both been quiet this whole time, but Lance speaks up, voice cracked and a little dry from the salt air.

“I'm going to sit up, alright?” Keith's hands clench at the edge of the board, his body a bit more rigid than it should be. “It's OK. Just relax.”

“I'll relax when we're back on solid–”

The board rolls in response to Lance's body weight shifting.

“Hey!”

Lance wiggles his toes beneath the surface and curls his spine, loosening into this new posture. “I didn't realize you were so spooked by water.”

The board tilts ever so slightly when Keith turns his head to shoot a glare over his shoulder. “I just don't want to have to swim all the way back to shore.”

Lance stretches his palms flat against the grain of the board, and inches closer, knowing full well if he were to keep going, they could lose balance. So he stills, a smirk curling his lips. “So, you're just being lazy while I do all the work.” He snorts. “Typical. You know my job would be a lot easier if I didn't have to paddle for _both_ of us. Maybe I'll just leave you behind.”

“Maybe you will.”

They both know he won't. At least, Lance sure does.

His gaze tangles in Keith's hair. It's obviously not meant for a day at the beach, let alone swimming. He wouldn't be able to see through such a nest of a mullet. But Lance sort of likes the way it curls, mostly dry but still damp at the nape of his neck. He lets his eyes roam lower, to Keith's back. The muscles there are more lean than anything, and his waist slim. Lance makes a mental note to tease him more often about his general smol-ness, as it's a perfectly wonderful and neglected way to get under his skin.

But the scars are really what he can't stop looking at.

They all have some. The paladins. But Lance sees _so_ many. Because while the Altean pods push near magic when it comes to healing, they can't repair scarred tissue completely. Lance alone has more than he can count– so he's not sure why he starts to do so with Keith. It's about as easy as keeping track of the stars.

A part of him can't help but try and remember where they came from, the little nicks, the jagged marks, and the long, pale blemishes. So many of them must have come while Keith was apart from Voltron. Especially those that didn't heal the same way, and stand out against his pale skin. Lance doesn't have to see Keith's face to remember the few there, too. Courtesy of the Blade of Marmora. Those guys really know how to leave an impression, huh?

It causes Lance's mood to turn stormy, and he knows he's done this to himself. Dwelling on dark memories, the times he was terrified his friends might not come back to him. . . It's enough to make his limbs feel leaden, like he'd sink straight to the bottom of the sea if he were to tip into the water.

The clouds have turned rose and blue overhead, as the sun dips ever lower in the sky. Night will fall soon. The wind has already picked up the slightest of chills, and a tiny shiver travels down Lance's spine.

“I didn't know you could sing.”

Lance freezes, almost a jolt response, rigid in contrast to the fluid waves. “So uh, you. . . you heard that, I guess.”

He remembers the tune he sang to Nadya in their room. The memory seems a bit distant, a bit too soft to be real, even if it was only a couple of hours ago.

“I mean, I've had some weird dreams, but I don't think I've had any _that_ bizarre.”

Lance purses his lips. “Well, I keep trying to tell you I'm a talented guy.” His chest puffs out. “It's not my fault you never listen.”

Keith's eyelashes are so long and dark, as he bats his eyes back at a nearly breathless Lance. “Well I'm listening now. What other hidden talents do you have?”

Funny how your mind draws blank at the worst possible moments.

“Um.”

“Yeah?”

“Well I. . .”

Keith smiles again, and it's sort of amazing, because somehow it drives that storm away until there's only sun. “Wow. You're speechless. That's a first.”

It's actually _not_ the first time Keith has rendered him speechless, but he keeps this to himself. “I can sort of play the guitar.”

“Sort of?” Keith asks.

“I mean I can_. _Really._”_

“Uh huh.”

“I'll prove it!” Lance abruptly drops back, and the board tremors. This does not go without a dark look from the front end. “Whoops.”

“You know that if you drown us both, Cosmo will be an orphan.”

Lance eases his limbs back into the water, now much cooler than before and begins to paddle them about. “I think we both know she's the one that looks after _you.”_

Keith has nothing to say to this, and even though Lance can't see, he's pretty sure the black paladin is pouting. This widens his grin further, as he lets the waves nudge them on toward dry land. From this far out, they can spot several bonfires going along the shore, and the city lights peep out from their home on the hills far away, partially obscured by palm leaves. The sun ignites the water, and the fingers of dusk drag through the sky. The moon is a copper sliver on the horizon, and Lance likes to believe it's the galaxy's way of smiling back at him.

Once they reach shallow waters, Lance abruptly tilts his weight, and sends Keith once again into the water. He claws at the board for balance, but it's no use. He finds his feet and glares at the offender, looking very much like a drowned cat.

Lance is running, pulling the board along. It skims the water until he lifts and tucks it under his arm. The sand feels warm against the bottoms of his feet as he journeys up the beach, a waterlogged Keith at his heels.

“Lance, you piece of–”

Cosmo yaps, springing after Lance as he runs, and lets out another excited bark before she blips a few yards back to where Keith has stilled, arms crossed and a wadded tank clutched to his chest. He shivers, and the cosmic wolf butts her master's leg with her head.

Lance plants the board in the sand, and slows enough to see the nervous glance his friend shoots over where his family has gathered, where they are waiting to reunite with Lance once more, where they are waiting to meet Keith.

“Hey.” Lance lets his voice whisper along with the evening breeze. “You gonne be OK?”

“I'm fine.”

“Don't worry,” the Red Paladin tells him. “They'll go crazy when they meet you. I promise, they'll think you're just as cool as I do.”

This seems to strike Keith just the right away, the push he needs to trudge up the beach and join Lance as they enter the warm radius of firelight. Familiar faces jump up to greet him, and Lance is nearly crushed by the force of twenty hugs, some simultaneously. It feels good to laugh, to cry, to say hello. His shoulders may be sore in the morning from all the back slapping, his face sore from the grin that won't go away, but he wouldn't have traded it for the moon.

Through the commotion, Lance catches a quiet moment off to the side. Nadya offers her floral beach towel up to a still sopping and shirtless Keith. The corners have been dragged through the sand, and it's probably not the driest towel around, but she lights up when Keith accepts and offers a shy “thank you”. He takes a seat on an obliging cooler and begins to ruffle through his hair. Cosmo takes her place at his feet, muzzle poking into his ankle. Nadya is quick to hop into his lap, babbling about something that makes the corners of Keith's eyes crinkle.

If he wasn't before, Lance is now pretty certain Nadya would follow Keith and his wolf to the ends of the galaxy. Even if the Black Paladin looks a bit stiff, a little unsure why something so sweet would choose to be with him, they ease into a playful conversation that has Cosmo's ears perked and Nadya soon in stitches of laughter.

A battered green jeep pulls up, taking what little space in their drive is left. The headlights shoot shadows across the beach until they blink out and the engine quiets. The driver has barely climbed out and started down the winding path when Lance takes off to meet them, because he knows who's arrived. And when she sees him coming? She runs too.

They crash together, and Lance lets himself hold his big sister as tight as he can. Her laughter is short lived, as they're both short of breath from the crushing hug. She gathers him at the waist and manages to lift him several inches out the sand.

“Whoa, OK.” Lance chuckles into her short curls. “You can put me down now.”

“Just because you saved the galaxy doesn't mean you get to boss me around.”

“Nah, we both know you'll always be the bossy one.”

She scoffs, but in a short streak of mercy decides to let him go. “Welcome back to earth, Lance.”

“Welcome back to earth, Veronica.”

They drift toward the fire.

“Wow.” She shakes her head, light hair bouncing. “It's crazy, right? I mean, we both dreamed of finishing up at the Garrison and taking a trip out there, but I never thought it'd be anything like _that.”_

That.

“Yeah. Me neither.”

Not ten feet from the fire, Veronica freezes, and a hand snaps around his arm with enough force to stop him in his tracks. “Wait a tick. . . You didn't tell me _he'd_ be here.”

“Oh.”

_That._

“Why didn't you tell me?” she hisses in his ear.

Lance cowers back as far as she'll let him, as her grip on his arm is still very apparent. “I dunno? I thought I did!”

“Would I have showed up dressed like this if you had?”

Lance briefly inspects the casual shorts and plain white tee she's currently sporting and offers a shrug. “How would I know? _Hermana loca._”

Then he remembers this is precisely why he hadn't told her.

“Can you just cool it for tonight? Keith's nervous enough about meeting the family–”

“Awww,” she coos. “That's like, highkey adorable.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He manages to get out of her clutches, and darts for the safety of Luis and aunt Agnes arguing over the scores at Slyvio's last ball game. Literally anything is better than listening to Veronica gush about Keith's stupid perfect hair. . . Because he knows that's exactly what he'll hear if he lets her go on.

This is his mistake. Without him to supervise, to distract, to redirect her focus, she wastes no time in waltzing straight over to Keith.

Aunt Agnes' insults to Sylvio's coach drift right over his head, now zeroed in on the two as they greet one another. It's all well and good, polite smiles and a friendly hello, until Veronica plops down on the cooler beside him. It's technically big enough for two, but small enough they end up close. Too close. Like, their elbows jostle and they gaze right into each other's eyes close. Sure, it might be cute, might be cozy, but it make's Lance's stomach churn.

“What did I _just _tell her?” he mutters.

No one else hears over Marco's loud inquiry about when the burgers will be done. Apparently no one else notices Veronica openly eyeing Keith's toned chest, least of all Keith himself.

Lance rakes a hand through his hair, eyes darting around, desperate to. . . well he doesn't know, exactly. To stop his sister flirting with his best friend? She has that right. To save Keith from the embarrassment? If he's noticed, which for some reason he hasn't, he doesn't seem affected. In fact, the two seem to fall into easy conversation, one that bores Nadya enough that she slips away, leaving the two as alone as they could possibly be surrounded by the activity circling the bonfire. Most of his family is focused on Papi setting out the dish of smoky burgers fresh off the grill.

When Lance wished for Keith to get along with his family, he didn't mean like _that._

“Quiznak.”

“What was that?” Rachel sidles up to him, an eyebrow raised.

“Uh. It's um. Altean for 'I'm really hungry'.”

“Hm.” She taps her chin, before offering him a chilled bottle of fizzy drink. “Quiznak. Cool. You learn a lot of alien words?”

“Some.” The drink bubbles up as he pops it open. Lance's face warms slightly as he takes a quick swig, curious how long it will take before his sister finds out it means otherwise. “Pidge knows way more Altean than I do.”

Not without spending a good several hours adjusting the Castle's language program. Only then did she dare carry on with the next lesson.

It isn't until they're pounds of burgers and condiments in that Lance gets the chance to take a swing at Marco's guitar. By then the youngest have curled in blankets, eyes heavy. Even Luis dozes off a few minutes, until Marco attempts a prank with whip cream and sprinkles leftover from their desert sundays.

Rachel bounces up and down in her seat beside Lance on a log settled in the sand near the fire. Her shoulders knock his as he settles the instrument against his knee. When he ghosts fingers over the strings, they give the softest whine, as if they beg to be strummed.

“Sing something?” Rachel asks, eyes glittering in the starlight.

The sky is big and endless overhead, and the waves sweep in a quiet roar behind them. Everyone has hushed, as if caught under the spell of the night, and they sit with wide waiting eyes.

Lance clears his throat, and gives a pointed look to Keith, only to see he's already watching. He ignores the way Veronica's hand “accidentally” brushes his friend's arm and mentally sifts through a playlist of songs. It's been a long time since he's heard many of them, as Earth music had been difficult files to find recorded in Altean or galran archives.

Under his fingertips, the strings hum to life. He trips up already, still finding his feet. Has it really been three years? The muscles in his hands take over when they remember, and the tune picks up the next beat. Maybe this is one of those things, like everyone says, like riding a bike. For Lance, it's like riding the ocean.

“_Somethin must've gone wrong in my brain, got your chemicals all in my veins.”_

When he sings, it's like honey on his tongue. A murmur from his chest, the vibration from the guitar carrying to his skin. This is not like when he sang to Nadya in his bunk. This time he feels seen.

Firelight catches on the polish of the guitar's body, and snaps in time as if it listens too. Rachel shifts more weight against him, as if to melt into this moment with him. There isn't anywhere he would rather be.

“_Now I'm seeing red, not thinking straight.”_

Lance's voice catches at his throat, and he knows he can't look ahead, or else he will see it again. He'll see those silver flecked eyes and that quarter smile aimed at him. The next chord fumbles.

If he was trying to impress Keith, he's likely failed. But maybe that doesn't matter right now. Maybe this is enough. So he carries on.

“_You're in my blood. You're in my veins. You're in my head.”_

Lance can't stop himself from glancing. That feeling blooms in his chest again. Like it does all the freaking time. Whenever he looks at Keith, whenever he thinks of Keith, whenever he wishes he could stop with Keith. It's enough. It's too much.

They've said I love you before. Once. Just remembering it sends a jolt through him. But it was undeniably different than what Lance feels now. Everyday he realizes that Keith might mean a lot more to him than just a friend. More than just a pat on the back and a “love you, man.”

Cheers fill the space, as the song rolls to an end. The sort of moment Lance lives for. This is the spotlight. This is all eyes on him. Instead of drinking it in, he finds there is only one pair of eyes he really sees. He's breathless. He couldn't keep singing if he wanted to.

~

He inhales deep, the steam a wall around him. The mirror has long since fogged over, and the damp heat envelopes the washroom. Water streams down his back, to rinse away sweat and sand and the salt of the sea.

It's almost too hot, but Lance is numb to it by now. Instead, he shivers. The ghost of hands on his scars feel like ice. Like they're being freshly sliced open. He can't close his eyes, because when he does, he sees marks like blood and a glow like a dimming star from beneath the witch's cloak. Lance would scream. Instead, he locks his jaw, and won't let a sound carry out.

_RAT TAT TAT._

There's someone at the door. “Hey Lance! Quit hogging the shower.”

Lance latches onto the voice, like a tether to pull him out of the sinking void. Keith always has a way of grounding him. He's like the rock to his ocean. Something solid to come back to.

“Yeah, cool your quiznak,” Lance calls.

He bites his lip, hoping Rachel isn't around to hear. Sooner or later she's bound to figure out its meaning, but Lance will see how long it takes her to catch on. Maybe he should drop it in sentences randomly, just to confuse her.

The shaking in his hands is better now, so he turns the tap off with a familiar _squeak._ When he reaches for a towel, he refuses to meet the shallow gaze in the mirror. He does not need to see, to know how heavy his shoulders are, how stiff his lip is. He does not need to see, because already he feels it.

Maybe it doesn't matter how hot a shower he takes. How many massages he gets. How much he tries to shake this out of his bones. His body stays strung tight, like a bow ready to give, to loose, to go off. How he's managed to hold it all together this long, is a blessed mystery to him. All he can do is hope that if the day should come that he finally snaps, he isn't pointed at anyone he loves.

In that sense, he can't help but feel like a time bomb, and no one knows but him.

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

Keith's voice carries past the crack under the door, only it sounds as though he's talking with someone else now, and has drifted further down the hall. Hopefully it isn't Marco harassing him, or worse, Veronica attempting to seduce him. Lance rushes with the towel through his hair, and knows it's probably sticking up in strange directions as a result. He hops into his boxers and shorts, and bursts out to see what's going on, in case an intervention is in order.

Keith is engaged in a video call, still in his sandy trunks and wrinkled tank. He's soft in this moment. Gaze open and unshadowed as he looks fondly at the multiple faces tiled across his screen.

“–And then! Then, Coran took the whole thing and drank it!” Hunk can't go on, as he's laughing so hard he could burst.

“It really wasn't that terrible,” Coran defends. “And you kept it in your kitchen cupboards for a reason didn't you?”

Pidge snorts.

“At least your stomach will be squeaky clean now,” Allura says brightly.

The haunts of the past flee. They dissipate, like the steam from his shower. He feels less like that time bomb. More like he's being stitched back together, with every word that catches his ear. Because as a team they did more than mend battle wounds, burns and scrapes, or worse. They picked each other back up when they got their feet knocked out from under them. Whenever someone drifted and floated in that dark void like space, they were the gravity to pull each other back in.

So Lance sidles up next to Keith to drink them in. The static images may be less than having them right here, right now, but oh how he loves to hear their voices. This is music. This is home. He can't speak, unable to even say a hello.

Fortunately, there are plenty of others to say this for him. The audio spikes when everyone sees him come into frame. And they sound every bit as happy to see him as he is them.

“Lance!”

“Hey, man!”

“Oh Lonce, it's wonderful to see you.”

“. . . Hey, team.” Lance swallows hard. “Wow, I've missed you. What's it been? Less than 48 hours?”

No one catches the tremor in his voice. It doesn't carry through the call, over a signal that travels thousands of miles just to connect them in this precious moment. But Keith's eyes rest heavy on him, because he stands right next to Lance, and he catches it. Keith catches everything. Except the most obvious of everythings, of course.

Lance glues his eyes to smiling faces, because he knows one shred of sympathy will bring him crumbling down. “Hey, who's suffering most right now with different time zones? Shiro?”

“Nope. It's noon here.”

“It's nearly midnight for us,” Keith says.

And as he speaks, he shifts closer so they will fit better in frame together. Lance can feel body heat seeping in through his arm, and suddenly his limbs feel heavy, ready to collapse into a bed that is soft and dry. Only for a moment, does he allow this delusion to cloud his thoughts, of Keith's warmth enclosing him in safety with arms that are strong, that won't let him drift anywhere near the land of nightmares.

Lance is so beat, he nearly fools himself into thinking its true. His eyelids feel as if they are weighted. His arms stretch out with a satisfying _pop_ in his spine, and he doesn't mind at all the he jostles Keith's elbow in the process. This closeness is making his head gooey, like butter melting when its been spread over warm, fresh bread. “I'm gonna go get a drink of water before I hit the hay,” he says, more for Keith's benefit than anyone else.

Without missing a beat, Keith turns to address the others, a little sliver of “team leader” slipping into his voice. “We'll catch up with you all later, okay?”

“Sleep well my bros,” Hunk says tenderly.

Something damp pricks the corner of Lance's eye. He's starving for a good old Hunk hug, but alas, this is one thing that technology cannot do. With the lions at their disposal, it seems unlikely everyone will hold out long before a proper reunion is had. Lance can get his fill of hugs then.

Content with this silent promise, he tramps down the stairs and to the kitchen in bare feet. Every corner is like a ghost. A chair he never thought he'd get to sit in, a picture he'd never see, a door he never though he'd walk through ever again. But here he is. He breathes it. He walks in it. He listens, and he hears a still house, full of people that he loves, safe and tucked in bed.

If this is what home feels like, well, he's not sure he'll ever find a reason to leave again. Because he's not seeing a ghost. This is real. It's alive, and here right now.

Water rushes in the pipes overhead. They are tucked between floors, but the sound still cuts through the silence. Keith is grabbing a shower of his own. Lance can't help but notice. He lets his gooey head stick to thoughts of Keith, being here, living here, a part of this. A family. A home.

It's not like they've never shared these things before. For a while, they called the Castle these things. But it's different here. Here, they share something different. It's normal. It's wild. Keith will hang his damp towel next to Lance's. Keith will keep his dumb old jacket in the closet next to Lance's clothes. They'll eat cold cereal together in the mornings. They'll get to hear snoring in the night, and see drool on their pillow in the morning.

They will share things here that Lance can't with his family, either. Like remembering their time in space. Missing their team, and friends in galaxies far, far away. And while Lance is totally afraid, and incredibly excited to see what “normal” feels like again, he can't help but be glad he'll have Keith too.

“Will you promise me to sleep tonight?”

Lance turns at the sound of his Mamá, swaddled in her plush night robe, taking the kettle off the stove to pour herself a cup of tea. How bizarre, that she's really here. In the dim light of the bulb above the sink, he catches all of the wrinkles that weren't there before. He watches her steady hands stir in a spoon of sugar, and a lump forms in his throat.

“Breakfast will be whenever you like. Sleep in as long as you want. There is no rush tomorrow,” she soothes.

Lance has cried enough tonight, but there might be more in store, if she keeps talking in this tone, as if he is seven again, with a scraped knee and a bruised lip from falling off his bike.

She must know, because she sets the spoon on the counter with a soft _clink_, and opens her arms wide to invite him closer. Even though he misses Hunk's hugs, he might trade ten of them just for one hug from his Mamá, and she is not four thousand miles away. She is right here, wrapping him up like he is her favorite thing to hold.

“I'll have plenty of time to rest, Mamá.”

She tugs at her son's cheek, so he will look her in the eye. “I just think you look so tired, mijo. Did you never sleep in space?”

“Alright, alright. I promise to sleep.”

She looks at him so fiercely, Lance is afraid he is going to receive a lecture on the importance of taking care of his body, making sure he gets enough rest. But she has something else to say.

“We are so, _so_ glad that we have you with us again. And we might never understand what you have gone through while you were so, so far away from us, but what we _do_ know, is how to love you. This, I understand. We are your familia. So we will love you."

The fluff of her robe is incredibly soft, as Lance's hands grip to it tightly. Like he really is seven again, and he doesn't want to go to school, because there is a boy who is taller, who is stronger, that makes fun of him. He won't let go now, either. And she lets him stay, as his breathing evens out, and the everlasting spring that gives source to his tears trickles out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the songs sung by our beautiful boy lance are "here comes the sun" by the beatles and "never be the same" by camila cabello


	2. Day Two: While We're Restless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: there is a fairly graphic depiction of a panic attack later in this chapter

Starting over. Not the kinda thing you get better at each time. Keith would know. Dad lost job? Move, find another. Got into a fight at school, _again?_ Suspended, find another. Fire takes everything he knows? That was like a house of cards built high enough you start to think maybe _this time_, just maybe, you'll make it to the finish line, only to watch it come crumbling down all around you. Build from the ground up. Wish that for once, something would stick. Something would stay. Foster parents don't think it's “working out”? Pack bag, start over. Again. And Again.

How do they do it? Normal people. How do they manage to stay? In one place?

Like last night. Every smiling face around the fire. They just _were._ This was their home. This was their family. Do any of them know what it's like to start over?

All Keith knows is that now, he's starting over _again_. Still trying to find that place. That home. That family. That thing that lasts. The thing that stays.

Day comes in a torrent of rain. The kind that smothers sunlight and knocks at windows. This insistent patter is what drags Keith from the trenches of sleep. That, and the way the bunk shudders as Lance fights his way out of the covers below. Keith stubbornly closes his eyes, and gets lost in the bleary fog that coats his vision and discourages all comprehensive thought.

A song, gentle and sleep slurred stirs him awake again. From the cocoon of soft gray bedding, he peeks a nose, then an eye back into the world. He catches a glimpse of Lance tugging a clean shirt over his head, the source of music. Whatever he's singing is presumably in Spanish, so its meaning is lost on Keith.

It soothes, like a balm. Not because it sounds particularly polished or professional. But Lance sings so soft, so sweet. A lot like he handles the guitar. A frisson, warm and lingering shoots over his skin, as Keith listens. The sensation is nice enough, he decides he's not even upset by the fact he could have easily slept a couple more hours.

And why on earth isn't Lance still snoring away? Keith finds it strange he'd be up this early, especially when he tilts his head to catch sight of the clock, perched on the shelf, pointing to the six.

Call it what you like, beauty sleep, the habits of a night owl, or plain lazy, ever since he can remember, Lance was always the last one up. Mornings on the Castle often began with Allura having a go at him for being late to breakfast or training or a meeting of important affairs.

Keith's still slightly puffy eyes squint at the rumpled head of dark sandy hair. Now that he's dressed for the day, Lance stretches his everlasting arms arms high above his head, then dips to touch his toes. He's only humming now, a sweet harmony to the rain pelting against the roof and the wind as it sways through the branches outside the porthole window.

Then it hits him.

Lance is excited. To be home. He's so excited he can't bare to stay in bed any longer.

It's. . . Keith swallows. It's endearing.

The same way it is watching him hug his family, after their arms have been out of reach for so long. The same way it is watching him crack a joke, just to get a chuckle out of Marco. The same way it is listening to him sing, because he's hardly stopped since they got here.

Keith forgets that he's staring. So when Lance sends a glance his way, he gets caught red handed. Before he can splutter an excuse or explanation (because his brain and mouth seem to have lost their connection), Lance bounds over with a grin plastered to his face.

“Hey, you wanna go on a run with me?”

Keith blinks dumbly. “In the rain?”

“Sure. Why not?”

Odd enough, Keith can't seem to come up with a single reason why not. It might be his head still foggy with sleep, but it's more likely the hopeful blue eyes glued to him, waiting for an answer. Lance may be a pest at times, but he's usually just outright persuasive. Keith will never tell him this, though. No need to expose such a critical weakness.

Yeah. There's no point in lying to himself. He's definitely got a weakness for this boy that sings, that hums with energy, that moisturizes his skin everyday, that smiles at the sea like it's his friend, that connects people like glue, that helped Keith adjust to this whole “leader” thing, that has always, always been there for him. (More or less.) A boy with captivating blue eyes. A boy that has somehow drifted closer. He's doing it _again,_ propped against the bunk's rail, gazing down so fondly at what Keith can only imagine himself as being an ugly nest of bedhead and whiff of morning breath.

He freezes up, and hopes the room is too dim for Lance to notice the flush painting his face. Limbs now locked, breath a stutter. Keith is fully awake, and forced to listen as his friend goes on, all bubbly like a brook or the sea he seems to love so much.

“I have to show you Lisa's flower garden, and the waterfall where I broke my leg, and the place Marco and I used to buy ice cream at over our summer breaks, and–”

“Alright.”

Those blue eyes turn round, and Keith sees the whole world in them. “. . . Really?” Lance talks like he expected a fight, like Keith might actually say no. This is a gaping oversight on his part, as Keith would have agreed sooner, if he wasn't having such trouble catching his breath.

“So long as you promise not to turn it into a race,” Keith amends.

“Mmm. We'll see.”

Yeah. Worth a try, right?

~

Teeth? Brushed. Beds? Made. Shoe laces? Tied.

The only thing that stands in their way is a dozing Cosmo. She takes up the majority of the floor at the landing of stairs, a carpet of charcoal and bright teal that rises and falls with deep breaths. A small whine pulls from her chest, and she shoves her snout deeper into the fold of massive paws. She must be dreaming, Keith thinks.

Lance signs for them to stay quiet, with a finger to his lips. He stretches one of those long legs, and finds footing on the other side, barely missing her tail. Once he's found his balance, he lets out a soft exhale of relief, as if he's just managed to avoid tripping an alarm in a high security location. Keith steps over, more like someone stepping over a crack in the sidewalk and less like evading a maze of laser traps. Honestly, Lance makes the smallest things so dramatic.

When the door opens, the sound of rain gets louder, crisper. As soon as Keith steps off the porch that wraps the front of the house, he is stunned by a sheet of precipitation falling over him. It slithers down his arms, under the neck of his shirt, and begins to soak his running shoes all the way to his socks.

Strangely, he doesn't find this disagreeable. The water falls lukewarm, and the muted tones of the sky cast a strange hue of green onto foliage, rock, trees, and the roofs that peak out, all the homes scattered along the sloped shore. From here, he can see the white crest of water rushing toward the sand, but its sound is lost to the drone of _tip tap, tip tap._

His eyes fall closed, as he drinks it in. Wet. Salt. Stormy. Gray. Moisture trickles down the planes of his face, and catch at his eyelashes. He remembers in vivid colours the planet Bhija, where it rained and poured without stop. How the sky was a swirl of smoke like vapor, and the air smelled of the fresh bite from the golden jibana trees. And even though every day was as drab as the next, the locals wore the brightest hues. Crimson, amber, lime, and blue. So much blue.

With energy levels like an eight month old puppy, Lance is much less inclined to standing still. Palms up to the sky, he takes a spin with his face tipped back to take the full brunt of the downpour. He is soaked through just as quickly as Keith, the white and sleeveless tee softly clings to him, and his freshly shampooed hair flattens and sticks out in odd places.

_Tip tap, tip tap._

This time, Keith has a handle on himself, his head no longer diluted by sleepiness. So he doesn't let himself look too long. He won't risk getting caught, however captivating, however tempting. Instead, he forcibly turns his head toward the lane that winds through the trees, inclined toward the heart of the island. It's riddled with potholes turned puddles and divots transformed into tiny streams. As they take off at a jog, their feet fall in sync with a satisfying _crunch_ in the gravel.

As they round a hill, Keith pumps deeper breaths to his lungs, determined to keep up with Lance. Though his legs might be shorter, he's found himself faster, lighter on his feet in the past. But he stays at an even pace. Just because he's certain he'd beat Lance in a footrace doesn't mean he wants to prove it. At least not right now.

Right now, he lets his head empty out, like it does when he sharpened combat skills on the training deck in the Castle, or pushed his strength in the Blade's hippodrome. Raindrops and sweat stick to him, and he pushes his arms, his legs to keep on. He doesn't have to think about his team sprinkled across Earth's globe, about the fizzling remains of the Empire millions of miles away, about his mantle as a paladin of Voltron, as paladin of the Black Lion, and most of all, he doesn't have to think about the luxite blade tucked away in his duffel bag. He doesn't have to think about where it came from, or what to do with it. Or why it has ceased to glow.

Unbidden, something snags in his head. _Someone_. The flow of his body and the rain and breathing and lifting legs hits a bump. He's out of step with Lance. Because now he remembers violet eyes framed by a mane of hair, indigo with a shock of fuchsia. A jaw that is set tightly in place, much like his own, painted with markings that are much like the one that mars the right side of his face. Most people will see it and think it nothing but a nasty scar. Keith knows better. Sometimes he forgets it's even there. But it always is. A reminder. A ghost.

His foot catches on an uneven patch, and he nearly stumbles in spite of himself. So much for forgetting. Forgetting crowded foster homes where he felt more like a lamp than a kid. Forgetting all the fights he got into at school, then the garrison. Forgetting lonely nights in a shack in the middle of a parched desert. Forgetting how scared he was to be stranded in space, at the center of an intergalactic war with an empire that had reigned for ten thousand years. Forgetting what it was like to come face to face with a mother he didn't know he could know. Forgetting what it was like to lose her all over again.

Keith is lousy at forgetting.

Fifteen minutes skip by like a heartbeat. Lance takes a shorter stride, then slows to a stop, so Keith does too. Air comes sharp now, and the humidity crowds him, like the island is breathing down the back of his neck. They've come to a small bridge, so Keith takes advantage of the railing and sags against the wood. Below, the stream gurgles as though bloated from the rain. Rolling over the rocks like liquid green glass. Like it has somewhere to be, and must get there in a hurry.

Now that he's still, the endorphins in his body spike, and he lets it wash over him. Make his limbs lighter. His lungs fuller.

Lance must feel the same, if the goofy smile on his face is any indication. He props his elbows on the barrier and leans next to Keith. “Great run, buddy.”

Buddy. Pal. My bro.

Keith keeps his eyes straight ahead, so he won't notice they're both soaked to the bone, with clothes that cling like cellophane. He knows that Lance isn't dense. But Keith has little faith in himself, and ability to mask feelings. How he has managed to hide this long is a miracle. Teeth press together, as if to lock away any thoughts that would dare creep as far as his tongue. Some days it feels like trying to keep a huge, rabid panther in a cage, clawing, biting, roaring, waiting for the day that the bars snap, and the truth comes bounding out into the open. So he keeps the cage locked. He keeps his mouth shut.

Luckily, Lance can talk enough for two with ease. “I know what you're thinking.”

Keith sure hopes he doesn't.

“That this is ridiculous.”

It sure is.

“I mean, who goes for a run, in the _rain_?” asks Lance. And he must be asking Keith, because there's not another soul around. “Thanks for coming anyway. It was just what I needed.”

Well, Keith isn't sure how Lance could _need_ something like this. But now, he's forgotten all about trying not to stare, and finds that once again he's drawn in by those blue eyes. They're like magnets, continually pulling him in.

“I. . . don't mind. Really,” replies Keith.

Around them, the rain has slowed to a lazy drizzle. _Tip. . . tap. Tip. . . tap._

Urged by the silence, wanting to fill it, Keith's mouth opens to say more. Alarms sound, as he realizes too late he has no idea what's about to come out. “I remember, when we first went to space. That's one thing you said you missed. Rain.”

Lance looks alarmed too. Until he doesn't. Until he looks as though Keith just gave the kindest compliment anyone could give a guy. Its sentiment is lost on Keith. All he did was remember.

How he knew, Keith isn't really sure. Did he overhear Lance telling Hunk? Or did he find it during one of the bonding exercises they did as a team, when they parted the curtains of their mind? Maybe Keith read it in blue eyes, the first time they saw a planet with precipitation like Earth, a quiet yearning for home as loud as ink on paper.

Yeah. Keith is definitely lousy at forgetting.

“So.” Lance inches closer. “Is there anything _you_ miss? About Earth.”

“Uh,” Keith says, elegantly. “Well. The quiet, maybe?” No. Not what he meant. What did that even mean? “Like. . . sitting and watching the sun set.”

“Hmm.” Beside him, Lance's fingers tap a rhythm against timber. How has he kept it in before now? In space, he wasn't ever like this. But now? Music just oozes out of him, like he's made of the stuff. And now, Keith almost wishes he'd start singing again. “Well the sunsets here _are_ amazing. We'll add that to the list.”

“The list?”

“Y'know. All the things we have to do since we're back.”

“Huh.”

Funny, Keith never thought of it like that. And Lance would. Lance probably had a list a mile long. It makes him smile, though. Because he realizes that maybe, just _maybe_, he'll get to be the one that helps Lance check all those things off. They can watch a sunset together, get ice cream, stand out in the rain, and whatever else Lance wants to do.

Keith is swiftly tested on this, when his friend blurts “race ya back!”

“Wha– no, I! Lance!”

“_Readysetgo.”_

There's no point in arguing. Lance is already dashed out of arms reach, and there's nothing to do but follow. So he does. Keith follows him, like he has before. Through unstable atmospheres, through rocky team dynamics, through hoards of galran drones. And as his step picks up, as he overtakes Lance on the winding gravel road, he knows he'd follow him through everything all over again.

~

No matter how many excuses Lance tries to throw at him, none of them land. They both know he won fairly. And Keith didn't want it to be a big deal. Didn't even want to race in the first place. So now he almost wishes he'd let Lance win.

“The sun was in my eyes.”

“Lance.”

“Let's rematch! Right now.”

Keith marches up the front steps to the door without faltering. “That's _not_ happening. Besides, I'm starving.”

A protest, in the form of a short whine. Then, Lance huffs. “Fine.” Keith hears the footfalls and porch creak behind him, as Lance follows, and they both enter the house. “Maybe _that's_ why you won. You just wanted food so much–”

“Shut up.”

“No, _you_ shut up.”

Keith gives a pointed look, before kicking his shoes off. They land with a soft _thud_ and _plunk_ on the mat in the corner, contributing to a pile with a pair and odd shoe for every foot in the house. The space at the bottom of the stairs is vacant, as Cosmo must have woken from her dreams. Perhaps by the heavenly smell like bacon, waffles, and sweet maple that wafts from the back of the house, where the kitchen is tucked. Keith follows his nose.

This place feels like a home. Not his, of course. But a home. There's a difference, after all. Yet when he drifts down the narrow hall, and spots the family portraits that hang like small windows back into time, he looks at each one, as if he might see himself captured in glossy print. Even though he isn't family. Even though the McClains had no clue who Keith Kogane was back then.

Wishful thinking. That's all it is. Because there aren't pictures of his own family, hanging on a wall or otherwise. It's a lot like a puzzle he'll never solve. Impossible, because there are pieces missing. Pieces he won't ever get back.

Framed in cherry wood, and stilted to the left, hangs a photograph of Lance. So little, he probably hadn't learned to talk yet. Ah. Wouldn't that be bliss?

“You know I can kick your butt at anything anytime I want.”

Keith grunts, noncommittal. Honestly, Lance should know better than to prod him on an empty stomach, before any caffeination. Wow. His mouth waters at the thought of _real_ _authentic legit coffee._ Made from coffee beans. Not the black raisin type guck that Hunk ground up in the Castle's kitchen. That definitely took a while to get used to.

“I thought of something else for the list,” Keith says. “Coffee.”

“Okay, okay. Stop drooling. That shouldn't be hard to check off.”

Keith isn't watching where he's going very well, because he nearly crashes into Rachel as they reach the kitchen. Her curls hang lopsided, rumpled from sleep, and her sweatshirt is baggy enough to cover most of her shorts. Her eyebrow quirks, and Keith recalls that his own shorts and shirt and socks are very obviously wet.

“Huh. Watcha guys been up to?” she asks.

“Yeah.” Marco, already seated at the table, glances up from his stack of waffles. “Did you throw Keith in the ocean or something?”

“No.” Lance pouts. “But I _might.”_

“Not if I do first,” Keith mutters.

The only one close enough to overhear his comment, is Rachel. She chokes in an attempt to conceal her laughter, and the others glance at her strangely. Keith looks too. Because when he does, he sees a shimmer in eyes that look so much like her brother. Not as blue, and tinted like a shallow pool of water. Keith wades in, hesitant. Because he still doubts that Lance's family is as pleased to have a stranger in their home as they act. But the way she smiles at him, as though they share a secret now, catches him off guard. It doesn't feel like an act. It feels real. Something turns in his stomach, like he's just done a barrel roll in the Black Lion.

“Are you two having a fight?” Marco asks. “How the heck did you get along long enough to save a universe if you can't even stand sharing a room for a day?”

“Now, now.” Mrs. McClain glances away from bacon sizzling on the stove top long enough to look each of her children in the eye. “Remember the rule of the house. _No pelear en mi cocina. _No fighting, no arguing, no name calling in my kitchen.”

“But Keith and I aren't fighting!”

“Do not argue with me.” Mrs. McClain shakes a spatula at Lance. “Or you will get no breakfast. Understood?”

“Sí Mamá. . .”

Rachel looks back at Keith, like she wants to laugh again.

The bacon must be done cooking, because Mrs. McClain urges them to come and eat, and slides two more plates, glazed in bright bold patterns onto the table for them. Keith hesitates at his chair, because he knows sitting down will mean leaving a wet imprint on the seat cushion.

“Sit, sit! The food is warm now,” she urges.

Keith complies, because now he knows there's no arguing permitted in her kitchen. In seconds, he has spread butter and a puddle of golden syrup over his waffle. His mouth waters in anticipation. “This looks amazing. Thank you. . . uh, gracias?”

She looks pleased, and when she gives his shoulder a pat, doesn't seem to mind the damp one bit. “De nada.”

One bite, and it's like sunshine on his tongue. He even licks his fork to catch every drop of maple syrup. It's warm, gooey, crisp. Everything anyone could ask for in a perfect waffle. That's it. He's in love. And so completely wrapped up in his plate, that he doesn't anticipate the arrival of a mug of hot coffee until it's being held out to him. Mouth still full, Keith looks up. Lance. Lance brought him coffee?

“Here you go.”

“Uh. Thanks. Lance.”

He takes it quickly, so he won't have time to linger in this strange twist of a feeling that has bloomed in his chest. At his touch, the mug is just the right temperature, and the smell alone is enough for him to temporarily forget about his waffles.

One sip. Likely, doesn't mean anything, Lance getting him coffee. Another sip. Keith _is_ a guest after all. The third drink goes down with a _gulp._ No one else made a comment. Did they even notice? Of course not. Keith is the only one that would overthink something so trivial, so domestic, so _not_ _worth_ overthinking.

Keith tries the tactic of distraction and settles on studying his surroundings. The walls have been touched in a delicate shade of taupe paint. The knobs and pulls on the cabinets are shaped like sea shells, except for one door, where it must have come loose. Shells and smoothed stones and glass in amber and sapphire line the window sill above the sink, and Keith wonders if they are treasures found among tide pools by little Marco, or little Louis, or little Veronica and given to their Mama. Perhaps the ivory swirl of a conch shell, no bigger than a spool of thread, is one that Lance found on one of his walks along the shore.

Each chair around the table is unique, as if salvaged from attics, garage sales, or antique shops. Some are simple as two slats along the back, while others are carved, or curl in ornate patterns. Does their family have established seating? Has Keith unknowingly stolen someone else's spot?

He squirms, until he remembers the way Rachel smiled at him just minutes ago. At no point has anyone led him to believe he's a bother. That he's simply in the way. Keith downs another swallow of coffee, much like he tries to swallow this thought that claws up. He is used to being brushed off, told to buzz off, that he's simply a burden. He isn't used to being included, wanted, embraced for all he is, a mess, a mistake, something mangled beyond repair.

This place feels like a home. Not his. Maybe. But it is a home. And perhaps, it could be his, just for a little while. Maybe.

It slips through the sliding screen door, the dreamy billow of wind chimes. Music that mixes with the chatter around the table. Much like the chimes, they are bumping, singing, making a melody of laughter, English, and Spanish. Keith lets himself get wrapped up in it. But not so wrapped up, that he fails to notice Lance's empty plate.

He doesn't say a word. Just frowns.

Veronica breezes in, softly as these same notes of the wind chime. “Good morning, everyone.”

Good mornings echo across the table, along with the _plink_ of tableware against plates. Except for Lance, who sits, and watches. No one else seems to notice. The empty plate. The quiet stare. The hands, tucked out of sight beneath the table.

It's jarring. So different from the Lance who told stories, jokes, who sang his heart out by the campfire last night. And perhaps, Keith wishes to be prodded, to be teased again, if only for Lance to be Lance. Still himself.

Veronica stops at the counter long enough to pour her own cup of jo, then takes a chair adjacent to Keith. Instead of syrup, like everyone else, she adorns her breakfast with cinnamon. The dust lingers around Keith's nose, a heavy spice, and he thinks that cinnamon must be a perfect way to describe her. Bold. Versatile. Resilient.

“So, Keith,” she says. “What are your plans for the day?”

He feels all the glances stick to his skin, clinging like the syrup to his fingertips. “I guess I thought I'd badger Lance. . . He said something about showing me a waterfall where he broke his leg?”

“Oh, I remember that,” Marco supplies with a hoot of laughter, and a hearty slap on his little brother's back.

“Yeah, of course _you_ do,” Lance quips.

“Will you have time to run some errands, mijo?” his mother asks. “Nadya needs someone who will take her to ballet lesson, and I need some things from the grocery.”

“I'm sure he'd love to,” Keith says, again, without thinking. And he isn't sure if it's true, but he knows that _he _would_._ He would love to. Because when has he ever had the chance to take his niece to dance class, or grab milk and eggs for his mother? Of all things, after food goo, headless aliens, a glitching ship, magic lions, frozen planets, dying stars, _this._ This is bizarre.

~

Red. That's the color of Lance's truck. Ancient. That's how old it is. Windows that roll down manually, and rust that peppers the body. Seats that are well worn leather, and a string of hand carved beads that sway from the rear view mirror as they hop in. The scent of cut grass and gasoline linger in the interior, and Keith breathes it in. Deep.

And just when Lance twists the key in the ignition, the driver's side door whips open, and there's Veronica clamoring in. She successfully shoves Lance from the wheel over into Keith. This does not go without an undignified screech.

“HEY.” Flail, to catch his balance. Whack Keith in the arm with an ungainly limb, because _of course. _“What's the big idea?”

Keith squirms deeper into his seat, to put any amount of space between them, as it seems the bench wasn't made to accommodate three adults, and Lance might as well be sitting in his lap, honestly. “Lance _get off.”_

“I will, when she gets out!”

Veronica puts it in gear, dips her foot against the gas, and both boys whip forward and get a good view of the dash, as she pulls back from the garage and twists into the road. “Oh, I'm sorry. Did you think I'd let you get behind this wheel with a license that's been expired for two years?”

“Well. . .”

Keith sighs.

Veronica grins, satisfied.

The truck groans, as they skitter over puddles, and the windshield wipers flick to life, so they can see the curve and slope of the narrow gravel lane, as they head in a direction opposite the shore. Luis and Lisa's home is tucked in a little green basin, just ten minutes away, wrapped by a picket fence, with flags of colour planted in the flowerbeds. So many flowers, it makes Keith a little dizzy. Veronica taps the horn, and Nadya comes springing from the front door, down the steps and the driveway toward the truck. Her dark hair is pulled up in a tight bun atop her head, and a sequined backpack swings by one strap off her shoulder.

The cabin is already tight, and Keith doubts there's room for anyone else, even someone as small as Nadya. Nevertheless she climbs through the door on his side, and Lance basically leans over him to get those long arms around her, so he can scoop her into his own lap. Somehow, her backpack finds its way into to Keith's unsuspecting hands, and a small smile tugs at his lip as he settles it on his knee.

“Hola, tia Veronica, tio Lance, tio Keith.”

Lance gathers her up in a bear hug from behind, and snuffles into her carefully placed hair. “Ready for your dancing lessons, princesa?”

“Nacido listo,” she chirps.

And with that, they're off again. The AC doesn't offer more than a weak waft of air, so they are stuffy from the humidity, until the downpour lulls and they roll the windows down to get some of that good, fresh breeze pouring in. It toys with Keith's hair, and batters at his eyelashes, and he breathes it in. Deep.

~

At first, it seems nothing more than chaos uncontained. Little frames weave across the studio. Little feet, little hands. Tugging on tights to make sure they are in proper place, and do not sag. Swinging arms about as they stretch over their head then sweep to toes and splay their palms against the floorboards. Downing a quick slurp from their water bottle. Saying a farewell to their parent at the door. Twittering flocks of friends, with much to say, much to laugh about.

Never in his life has Keith been so intimidated by a roomful of kids. As if they will suddenly swarm him, peck at him, like a murder of crows clad in pastel leotards. So he digs his hands into the pockets of his black jeans, and shrinks closer to Veronica and Lance as they sit in metal folding chairs that are nestled against the wall.

The barre lines the east side of the room, and large pane windows take up the west with a striking view overlooking the town and far off mist of the ocean. In the middle of the studio, all of the students, in range of heights and skin tones flock around one that stands a good three feet above the rest.

“Whoa.” Lance tilts forward in his chair, to get a better glimpse. “Is that. . . _Jose?”_

“Second year dance?” Veronica asks.

“Yeah.”

Keith glances suspiciously at the instructor again. Black tights skim toned legs, a sweatshirt green like pine sits lopsided on his shoulders, its neck is stretched from wear and shows a peek of salient collar bone. A mop of unruly dark hair, that comes just shy of smiling brown eyes. All of this manifests as something polar and ugly in Keith's stomach, that he might actually vomit up. “Who's Jose?”

Lance waves a hand, like it's not a big deal. “We were in the same class a few years of dance. But we were like, twelve, and I haven't seen him since.”

And by the way Lance's eyes glue to him, as Jose leads the students in a round of stretches to warm up, he's making up for lost time.

Okay. Cool. Maybe _next time_ Keith opens his big mouth, and volunteers himself to do something helpful, he should just go ahead and put his big, clumsy, never-danced-in-his-life feet in it first.

“Hey, tiger.” Veronica prods a shoe into her brother's shin. “Sorry to break it to you, but last I heard, he's been dating some chick for like, a year now.”

“Oh.”

Watching Lance deflate is an all around bummer. Because instead of feeling relief, all that Keith gets, is a sharp, insistent pinch of guilt in his gut. Why shouldn't Lance get to flirt with cute dancers? Has Keith ever given him a reason not to? Nope. Not a single one.

But. . . what if he does? What if. . .

Keith's jaw draws taught, in an all too familiar line. Everyone always calls him brave– reckless– but courageous. He jumps into the fire. He _runs_ toward the danger. Caution to the wind, and all that. But that's just what they see. What they don't see, is the simple fact that underneath every mask, he's just the opposite. _Afraid._

The reason Keith has never given Lance a reason? Because he's too much of a coward. It's risky. Risk losing his best friend? Risk rejection from the person he most craves acceptance? Nope. Nope, nope, _nope._

“So.” Keith forces his voice to be kinder, lighter, than it feels in his throat. “You took dance?”

“How else d'you think I got to be so _graceful?”_

“How else do you think he got to be such a _diva?”_ corrects his sister.

The banter does its magic. Lightens his chest, loosens his shoulders, tugs up at the corner of his mouth. So when he replies, it's almost too much to keep a straight face. “Oh, my mistake. I thought he was just born that way.”

“_Hey.”_

Veronica laughs, loud enough to be heard above the thrum of Tchaikovsky that drifts through the studio. And they laugh some more, the three of them do. The hour goes by, swift as the trace of slippers against the worn in boards; feather light.

At one point, a parent occupying the seat next to Keith strikes up conversation, though English isn't her first language she's hardly shy of talking. Estela, is how she introduces herself. And seems a kindly woman, Keith can tell, with her round face and white smile. Estela comments on the weather. Keith agrees.

“Which one is yours?” she asks, and casts an eager eye out into the sea of young students.

Instead of “oh no, no” and “you've misunderstood” and anything else Keith might expect to stammer out, he simply nods in Nadya's direction. Spine straight, toes pointed out, chin up. A grin on her face that is dazzling, for lack of a better word. The flow of piano seems to be dancing with her, and not the other way around. Keith knows the moment he looks at her. She's the kind of bundle of everything sweet, everything special, that even pretending to call her his own, as if they are family, is something he'll do any chance he gets.

“Her name is Nadya,” Keith says. Then, tacks on that “she's six years. . . tall.”

This addition causes Lance to perk up. The look he slides Keith being one he'd keep forever, if it were possible. As if there is a shelf in his heart for that sort of thing. And maybe there is. Because it slots right into place. Like someone that keeps a shelf of mementos in their home has just added another trinket to remember a latest adventure by. Next to sea glass on window sills. Socks wet from morning rain showers. Sand in Keith's hair, between toes, peppering skin. Spanish words that have begun to roll around in his head. Lance's voice. Just the sound of it. Because it's something Keith would bottle up, if he could.

Across the room, Nadya stutters on her feet. Catches her balance, because she overshoots. Because she's a lot like her uncle. Humming with energy. Can't keep still, can't keep quiet. Keith can almost imagine the glow of quintessence bouncing off her, as she finds her way back into the rhythm. It orbits her, and she feeds off of it. And when her eyes stray from the instructor, she sends a smile their way. Heart melting.

“Hey.” Keith's voice sounds parched, catching like gravel. “There was something I wanted to ask you.”

“Uh, sure,” Lance says. “Shoot.”

“Don't you think it's weird Nadya started calling me tio, like, right away? I'm. . . not really her family, exactly. Does she know that?”

Lance pulls the sort of face that those statues of philosophers do. Hand to chin. This leaves Keith in suspense as to exactly what nugget of great wisdom is baking inside that head of his. Finally, he settles on something, which comes out abrupt. Like a sharp jab to Keith's lungs.

“Well. I guess she could be.”

“What?”

“Like, the team and stuff,” Lance amends. “We might as well be family. Right? And if we're family, I'm happy to share mine. Why shouldn't she call you tio? I mean. . . unless it bothers y–”

“No. No, it doesn't. Bother me, I mean.”

In fact, it feels completely, thoroughly, altogether _right, _like a puzzle piece slotting into place. Seamless. As if it were meant to go there all along.

~

The list is short.

_Eggs. Coffee. Rice. Tomatoes._

Rain falls, as if it never intends to stop. As if the heavens have parted to an eternal stream. And it comes down, down, down.

When someone imagines a vacation on an island in the northern Caribbean, Keith is pretty sure this isn't what they have in mind.

_Slam_ go the doors on both sides of the truck. _Slap_ go four pairs of feet, against pavement. They make a dash from the parking lot to dry haven inside the grocery store. Cool air blasts against damp skin, and when the automatic doors slide shut behind them, the sound of the storm outside mutes to the narrow hum of LED lights and food coolers.

Seems no one thought to bring an umbrella along. So the soles of their shoes chirp against the linoleum, and every few seconds the ends of their hair drip onto rain kissed shoulders. Maybe it's just a McClain thing. To go waltzing out in the middle of a rainstorm, no boots or raincoat or anything. Like any other day. Like the sun may as well be shining. Keith doesn't get it. Yet.

“Okay, troops.” Veronica whips the slip of paper from a pocket in her jeans. “Four items, four of us. For efficiency, I recommend we split into pairs and head opposite ends of the store.”

When the doors open for an elderly couple that come strolling in, their group shifts out of the way. Against the wall and corral of shopping carts. In a huddle that closes, so that Veronica brushes Keith with an elbow, and he is nearly shoulder to shoulder with Lance.

Veronica talks as though they are about to embark on a secret mission. Nadya stands on tiptoe to see the list, face solemn, as if she is playing the game too. Keith cranes his neck to get a look at the scrawl in red ink, but it is written in Spanish, so he can only guess which word means eggs, and which word means rice.

Veronica shifts closer, so he can see better. “Keith, y–”

“Is with me,” Lance interrupts.

“_Lance,”_ she says, in her big sister tone. But there is little room to object, because he's already tugging Keith along by the arm. “Fine. You two get the tomatoes and rice?”

“On it,” he calls over his shoulder.

Keith finds his hand is shaky, as Lance's fingers burn into his skin. As if he has stood under the sun much too long. Too stunned to say anything, to do anything but comply, Keith follows past aisles of cereal and cleaning supplies. All of it seeming a blur, compared to the snare around his wrist. How he got here seems hazy, like the gray that hangs over the town. Why is he being dragged through a grocery again? And why does this have Keith feeling dizzy?

The list is long.

Not like their grocery list. This one stretches like the miles of ocean between them and the rest of their team. Further. Like the miles between Earth and planet Kerberos. Interstellar.

Because a list of every way that Lance Sharpshooter McClain makes him weak kneed and muddled in the head could go on for like, ever, probably.

“Uh, Lance?”

“Yup?”

“You can. . . let me go now.”

So he does. It takes about every ounce of self discipline Keith has not to sigh audibly in the huge _whoosh_ of relief that washes up in his lungs. His hands go into his pockets, in fists. Because he'd do anything, anything at all to stop feeling the way that they twitch, the way that they itch, to be touched, to be held.

Surroundings come back into sharp focus, as if all that needed doing was adjusting a lens. A simple zoom out. Because as fun as it is being in a space where existence narrows to _two_, there is little gravity there, and Keith would prefer to keep his feet on the ground, thank you very much.

The signs that hang above the aisles catch his eye, and though he attempts to translate them in his head, partly as a distraction to the boy in step beside him, he fails disastrously.

“Hey,” he says. “Why don't you teach me? Spanish.”

Lance's eyes dart to the side, to take him in with a look that is appraising. Like he doesn't really believe that Keith means this. “Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

At the dried goods, Lance comes to an abrupt halt, and heaves a large bag of rice from the bottom shelf. With a finger, he traces the letters stamped across the front as he pronounces. _“Arroz.”_

Keith repeats, trips up on the roll of _r_, and tries a second time. It comes smoother. Not quite there. But enough that those blue eyes smile at him.

“Bueno! Arroz.” They start down the next aisle. “And, it's masculine. That's important to know. Y'know, words are masculine or feminine.”

“Yeah, I remember that part from school.”

They try out some other words, too. Lance pausing every few steps to point to another item. And Keith likes the way they dip, they slide, almost dance off his tongue.

_Caldo._

_Galleta._

_Pan._

When Veronica said the word _efficiency,_ Keith is pretty sure this isn't what she had in mind. Minutes go by, uncounted. Who counts, when you're having fun? And Keith doesn't even remember the last time he had fun, besides last night, of course. Even the word, causes echoes unfamiliar to ricochet from his fingertips to his chest. Is this going to be a normal thing from now on?

It's soft. Like a gentle knock. Reminding him that here, on Earth, there is a new life that stands waiting for him. If he will ever open the door. If ever he's ready to let it come in.

“You catch on pretty quick,” Lance says.

_Knock. Knock._

“Gracias.” Keith says this, instead of “only because I have a great teacher” or some other sappy nonsense.

_Knock, knock._

Eventually they arrive at the aisle of produce. Painted in bright colours by bananas, papaya, mango, sweet potatoes, and a root that Lance calls cassava. Down the way, sit the bright red tomatoes, and they must go single file past an employee wheeling out crates of canned fruit to reach them. Wrapped in a red apron, he is an older gentleman, and seems to have difficulty maneuvering the weight of this load through the narrow aisle. Keith has just begun to inspect a tomato when there is a _CRASH,_ and all three crates of canned goods come tumbling out onto the floor. Rumbles, like thunder right over their heads.

Abandoning his tomato, Keith steps out to pick up a can of pineapple that rolled to the end of the aisle. “Here. Let me help you with that.”

The man only shakes his head, apologizes over and over in Spanish. He looks so distressed, that Keith kneels to help him collect more cans. Stepping over a sticky spot of juice spread in one area, Keith replaces an armful of spilled cans into a crate.

This is when he looks back. This is when he realizes that something is very, very wrong.

“Lance?”

Keith gets to him in choppy strides. Steps over the sack of rice, dropped, scattered everywhere. Until he could reach. Until he could touch. Though his hands hover, unable to cross this distance, when he stands right here.

“_Lance.”_

The only way Keith can describe it, as if Lance is drowning right here, right in front of him, in the seventh aisle of the grocery store. And he's no clue what to do.

“Lance, can you hear me? You gotta breathe, buddy–”

If he would only breathe.

The man in the apron says something, but all Keith can hear is the rapid drumming in his ears. _Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

Keith can't stand by a second more, without descending into his own panic. So he closes the gap, and reaches out to touch Lance's arm. “Please? Can you help me? My friend, he's, he's. . .”

Unfortunate, that knowing how to say shopping cart or cookies aren't going to get him anywhere. The man is just as clueless as Keith.

There is a girl at the other end of this aisle, who replaces a bunch of green bananas to drift toward them. “Your friend, is he alright?” she asks, in excellent English.

“I. . . can you ask the grocer to make an announcement? For his family? His family is here.”

Because Keith can't deal. He doesn't have a handle on this. Lance can't hear him. He's trying to keep a grip. Trying to get him to breathe. But he gasps. Still gasps. His hands are balled in Keith's shirt, and now he's crying, looking so, so scared.

“Of course,” the girl says. “What are their names?”

“Veronica. He needs Veronica.”

Paying little attention to spilled rice and sticky linoleum, this girl, this angel goes to the man in the apron, to say something rapid fire to him, and he nods in understanding. Crates abandoned, he rushes in the direction of the front of the store.

Legs. They do a lot for ya. And when Lance's suddenly give out, it's all Keith can do to hold onto him. “I'm right here. I've got you,” he says, though it tastes sour like a lie.

In minutes, the static of the loudspeaker jumps to life, and an announcement is made first in Spanish, then again in English. Punctuated with a sharp _click._

In minutes, Lance still has an iron grip on him. Keith wraps his arms as tight as he dares, as those lungs still cough, and stutter, and wheeze like they've been punctured. Hands trace up and down a trembling spine. Strokes that are as smooth, as steady, as _here for you_ as Keith can manage.

In minutes, breathing comes a little easier. Just hearing it. The in, out, in and out, makes Keith's knees so weak with relief, he's not sure how much longer he can keep them both upright. But he doesn't have to, because Veronica appears at his side, eyes a fright, her hand nearly crushing on Nadya's small wrist.

“Lance! Lo que ha sucedido? Keith, _is he okay?”_ One of her strong hands traces a circle into her brother's shoulder blade. Keith can feel Lance's muscles let go, just the smallest fraction as he melts under her touch, at the sound of her voice. “Omygosh what do we do? Lance??”

“I don't. . . I don't know. We need to get him out of here,” Keith decides. “You have the keys?”

There is a soft jingle as she fishes them from her pocket. “Yeah. Yeah okay.”

“V'ronca? Keith. . . m'sorry,” Lance murmurs into Keith's sleeve.

“Hey, hush. Let's just get out of here. Forget about shopping. Let's get you home,” she croons.

“Yeah.” His voice is dull. “Okay.”

The cool press of metal buries into Keith's hand, when Veronica gives him the keys. “Here, I'm going to pay for the rice and everything. I'll meet you out at the car.”

Nadya's eyes are wide, her bottom lip caught between teeth, too frightened to say a word. So Keith inches beside her, and somehow manages a smile that he hopes helps. “Ready to go?”

She nods.

Keith keeps an eye on Lance, steps a little too wobbly for his liking, and the other eye on Nadya, who has reached for his hand as they cross the parking lot. They must wade through a puddle five feet wide to reach the truck, and Keith fumbles with the keys, fingers quivery. Almost as if he shivers, even buried in the humidity. In spite of the heat, he feels like ice.

_Tip tap, tip tap._ The rain pelts the hood and roof over their heads. With a stutter, the engine hums to life. And they idle. They sit, and wait.

Nadya cuts through the quiet, and sounds as though she's two breaths from bursting into tears. “. . . tio Lance?”

Unwilling, or more likely unable to reply, Lance gazes out the window, as the downpour creates a web of little streams racing down the glass. Keith can't help but remember the empty plate at breakfast. The quiet stare. The hands, tucked out of sight beneath the table. Guilt presses in like the wind bending through the palms. Why didn't Keith see sooner? He should have noticed. Should have known. Something is wrong. Something Lance shouldn't have felt he needed to hide. Why did he hide?

“Sometimes,” Keith hears himself saying, “people go through things that are really scary. And it's hard to forget those things. But Lance will be okay.” _He has to be._ “Especially. . . if we're there for him. Sometimes it's less scary when you know. You know you're not alone.”

“You were scared, tio Lance?”

With hands coiled shut, knuckles pale, as if to keep them from shaking, Lance hangs his head. “Yeah. I was.”

Keith has to grip the steering wheel. His anchor. Because if he doesn't hold on, he might slip under. This guilt he has? Not getting any lighter.

Nadya curls closer to Lance in the leather seat, arm looped through his, so she is flush against him. “Next time you feel scared, you can just hold my hand. That's what my Papi tells me to do, and it helps me every time. Maybe it can help you? So you know you're not alone, like tio Keith says.”

Those hands, drawn taught, fold open. Lance offers a flattened palm to her, and it's mammoth compared to her own. But as they twine fingers together, that little hand is sure, is strong. They all know, she will not let go.

_Tip. Tap._

Soon enough, Veronica returns, and Keith scoots over and gives up the driver's seat. To avoid being crushed between the two boys, Nadya crawls back into her uncle's lap. Keith doesn't even mind being squished in the middle. Because it means he gets to feel every single inhale, exhale of Lance's lungs. He's _breathing._ And as they go winding back over the bumpy gravel road, it's all that Keith can think about.

~

The stars seem so far away tonight. Much closer is the tangled nebula of Keith's thoughts. Stretching on, and on. No map. No space chart. And this is how he finds himself so lost, from his quiet spot musing on the porch swing.

Sway back, then forward. At the right angle, he can catch a glimpse past the candlelight warmth that leaks through the house windows. He can see the McClains, engaged in a card game sprawled over the coffee table. Not like Keith is counting, but he's pretty sure Lance is winning. _Of_ _course._ And he'll brag about it for days, probably.

Keith can only hope. If only for Lance to be Lance. Still himself. Still breathing.

Looking at him now, you'd almost think everything was fine. That earlier was just a bad dream. But if Keith has learned anything about his team mate, it's that Lance is skilled at acting “fine”_._ Terrifyingly so.

A weary _creak_ breaks the quiet, as the screen door gives in. A slim shadow falls over the porch, and sifts over the boards with barely a sound as Veronica approaches in bare feet. In this light, her eyes are like amber, flecks of gold. She tips them up, to take in the sky that lies beyond.

“The stars are amazing tonight.”

Keith is quiet.

“But, it's different now, y'know? After being up there in the middle of it all.”

Keith _does_ know.

As if the evening's salt breeze carries her, Veronica drifts closer. “Mind if I sit?”

“Sure.”

So she does. The swing rolls from the added weight, and with her foot lulls them into a gentle rhythm. Back and forth. “I uh, wanted to thank you,” she says. “For today. With Lance. Honestly, I'm not sure how I would've handled it without you.”

“Don't you think that's giving me a little too much credit?”

“No. I don't.” The back and forth stops. “You don't know how grateful I am, knowing Lance has friends like the paladins of Voltron. Knowing he's got a friend like you.”

_A friend like you. _That's him. The buddy. Old chum. Just a pal.

Keith flounders for words. What's he supposed to say to that? Whatever it is, whatever response his brain feeds his slack jaw, it's gotta be a lie. Keith is tired. Sick and tired of it. All these lies.

Hands tighten, instinctively, as if he's right back in that aisle again. Trying to keep Lance from sinking. From slipping away.

_Breathe._

His voice comes out, sounding more frightened than he'd like. “I don't–”

“I know he cares a lot for you.” She tucks a wave of hair behind her ear. “We. . . we all do. Keith–”

No sooner has the murmur of his name left her lips, then her hand has settled on his knee. While Keith stares dumbly at the gesture, it travels upward in a silky stroke. All at once, she is so close. Too close. Close enough, he smells the coconut sheen of her shampoo. Close enough, he feels her next words inch along his skin. And Keith can't help but feel like a frog cooking in a pot, that hasn't noticed the rising temperature until it's too late. Until it's boiling.

“–That's why I've been so afraid to come out and tell you. Because you're my brother's best friend, I know–”

Keith jolts. As if these fingers of hers hold electrical charge. The swing rocks violently, and there is a bodily _thump_ when he lands on his backside against the worn planks of the porch. Head spins. Pain shoots up his spine. And there is a churning in his stomach that leaves him wondering if he's really on solid ground, or if the world is pitching like a small boat at sea.

He feels lost all over again.

“Oh my gosh! Are you OK?”

Finding some bearing, he scrabbles to his feet. Can't help but shrink back, back into shadow. Away from light pouring through windows. So she can't reach. Can't touch. Can't take him back to that place where there is no air but her own slithering at his neck. Shaky hands dust off his jeans. Words come tumbling out. “I'm sorry. . . it's just. I. I like. . . someone else.”

Blue eyes. Stellar. Pull him in like gravity. Honey. Sing him to sleep. Laughter. Scorches, like the sun. Tears. Drown, like a sub-tropical rainstorm.

_Someone._

“Oh.”

Keith knows he's smooth as sandpaper. Knows this was probably a top notch rejection. But he doesn't know how to say it. How to say anything, really. Which is why he stands there, heart throbbing, hands itching, tongue glued in place.

“Someone else, huh?”

“I'm sorry,” Keith blurts again.

“Hey.” Veronica lumbers out of the swing and toward the door, giving him a wide berth. “It's cool. At least I know now, right? I can stop throwing myself at you. Won't Lance be relieved.”

“He. . . will?”

“He keeps telling me to lay off. It's cute, right? Protective best friend/brother and all that. I guess it wouldn't have worked out anyway.”

Through the door she slips, quiet as she came. But just as it swings shut behind her, Keith finds his feet, finds his voice. “Veronica?”

She turns, and waits, watches through the filter of the screen. “Yeah?”

“Thanks. For all that stuff you said. I don't know, it's weird because I've been here less than 48 hours, but. Your family. You, and everyone. I care too. I'm really the one that should be grateful.”

A smile flickers, and instead of seeing how much it looks like Lance, such a _McClain_ smile, Keith sees past this, sees Veronica. And knows that they really are cool, like she said. Because like she said, she cares. They all do.

It makes this cumbersome weight pressing against him lift, like a shot of helium. Racing past the scattered clouds, up, up, and to the stars. Free.

“You're welcome, Keith.”

~

Like a blade that runs from Keith's heart to his gut, a cry cuts in the night. Had the ceiling been lower, he certainly would've received a nasty bruise to the noggin with how fast he springs from his pillow. Pulse hammers through his veins. Sweat a film on his body, from more than the humidity trapped within the slant of the attic. He's wide awake, ear sharp to the muttering, to the shaky breaths below.

Pumped up on adrenaline, Keith swings down the ladder to the carpet, where moonlight through palm fronds cast silvery shadows. Eyes blown wide, adjust swiftly to the low light, and he sees the crumpled form in the lower bunk. Drawing close, own breath caught in a space somewhere between, he whispers.

“Lance?”

“_Mmmph.”_

Then louder, cries out again.

Keith freezes, mere inches from reaching out. A nightmare, he concludes, must be the cause. And with an ice grip on his chest, can't help but wonder how many nights Lance has wrestled alone, with no one to hear. No one to reach out.

This is the culmination of everything. Every rush, glance, touch. Illuminates to Keith, what he must do. All the known galaxies press in on him, the burden of Atlas. Perhaps it's simpler than he's made this to be. A maze. An endless labyrinth. Something to be solved, like a puzzle. Maybe it's not that at all. Maybe it can be this. Simple.

There is no tremble in his hand, as he reaches out. As he finds the slope of shoulders. As he slides near. To his friend. To his _someone._ Because Lance may try to hide. But it's just a big, wild waste of everyone's time. Because Keith sees. And he can't _not._

So he does.

“Lance, wake up.”

Like a gentle whisper, Nadya's words come to him. “_Next time you feel scared, you can just hold my hand. That's what my Papi tells me to do. Maybe it can help you? So you know you're not alone.”_

As Lance stirs, Keith has already found a pallid hand in the covers. Has already slotted fingers into place. Kneeling there at the bedside, he holds on with everything he's got. Those blue eyes are unseeing, blinded for a moment by whatever terror has gripped him in sleep. Blink. Deep breath. Tendons in his hand flex, and feel that Keith is here. That he is not alone.

“I'm right here,” Keith says. “I've got you.”

“I. . . I must have been dreaming.”

“Lance.”

A flickering glance to their clasped hands, causes something new to catch in Lance's wide eyes. “It's. . . fine. Sorry for waking you up.”

“No. It _isn't_ fine. You're not fine. You don't have to pretend like you are.” Keith doesn't let go. “You. . . can talk about it, if you want.”

Lance bites his lip. Looks away. Too ashamed to come out. To stop hiding.

In the still house, only the waves as they greet the shore can be heard. This, and one thing more. Like the beat of a drum in Keith's veins. Erratic. Incessant. A _thud_ against his collarbone. Loud enough to drown out whatever static thought might be floating in his head. So there is no deliberation. No anticipation, before he finds himself rising from his knees. This is complete impulse. And he gives into it heart and soul.

In the still house, one thing more can be heard. The bend, the _creak_ of the mattress, as Keith slots himself beside Lance. This is the culmination of everything. That they should be found here, trembling together. Arms wound amid rumpled sheets. Hearts wild inside chests flush together.

“Is this okay?” Keith asks, in a voice that is small. Because his whole being is only _aching_ to wrap tighter, pull closer, _never let go._

The brush of Lance's hand at his waist sends his stomach roiling, thoughts crashing, limbs melting. Impulse has brought him here, to a place of shipwreck. Keith is in splinters, and feels himself floating away, sinking into dark depths never to be found again. If Lance is a siren, than he has dragged Keith under. Drowning, in all the best ways.

“I can go,” he whispers.

In silence, he pleads. _Don't let me go._

And the quiet stretches on, much like the sea, that rolls in the distance. For miles and miles. Until Keith is quite sure this silence means he is unwelcome. That he has stepped too far. Plunged too deep. Rifling away in the covers, just an inch because he's already talking himself out of this, Lance's arms stiffen. Pull him back. Pull him close, so Keith feels an exhale flutter on his cheek, can see every silver fleck and watery depth of the sure gaze that looks back at him.

“Stay.”

So he does. Gets to listen to each breath. Gets to hold it, in its rise and fall. One of those long legs hooks onto him, and Lance's forehead eases against his own. So they are so near, that Keith swears they must share the same air. There could not be a more precious thing, he believes, than to know beyond doubt that Lance is breathing. In, out, in and out. Soon enough, he is lulled back to a place of sleep. A place where nightmares are no more.

In his final waking moments, Keith can't help but feel he's starting over once more. Still seeking that place. That home. That family. That _someone._ That thing that lasts. The thing that stays.

But this time? He's not afraid. Because _this time_, rooted in place, wrapped up in everything that is Lance, he can't help but feel he's found a place. A place to stay.


	3. Day Three: When the Lights Come On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: includes brief language and mild sexual content
> 
> will post the fourth and final chapter next week!! i've been blown away by everyone's kind comments and feedback thus far. . . thanks everyone <33

If the world was ending, Lance could have slept through it all in complete and perfect bliss. Which means something, right? Because he can't remember the last time he made it through the night without making a tangle of his sheets from tossing, woke up feeling as though he is whole. Ready to face what the day brings.

The first night back home, he could hardly keep himself barred beneath the covers til morning's light. Now, it seems, Lance has little reason to get out of bed. So he doesn't. Instead, catalogs how well every slant and curve and elbow feels pressed into him. Like pages of a book. Perhaps Lance will never leave. Would that be so bad?

Dark hair, that is silky when Lance burrows his nose into its waves. A strike of pigment from jaw across cheekbone, that he traces with lazy eyes. Steady arms, strength lax in slumber, feel more glorious than any of Lance's imaginings could ever have supplied, as they bundle him up.

Yeah. He might never leave, like _ever._

His lungs expand. Fill him up. Bring him floating further from the place of sleep. And as such, begins to think about how it is he arrived here. Is this some sort of fluke? A misprint? A gigantic snafu? Because this is bizarre. Like, plot twist of the century. Keith is here. Beside him. In his bed. Not a dream.

The memory creeps up on him, just as his friend had crawled to him under the veil of darkness. Keith's words buzz in his ear. _“It isn't fine. You're not fine. You don't have to pretend like you are.” _It pulls his chest open. Leaves him bare. Vulnerable. Terrifying. Because now, he can't brush this away. Hide it behind a smile. Because now, Keith will see right past the cracks of a feeble mask.

Just as these thoughts gather like a cloud hanging over Lance, a pair of sterling eyes startle open. Blink slow, as if taking stock of where is he, and how close they are. Then, flutter shut, behind blinds of dark lashes. A groan ambles from Keith's chest, dying as a whine at his tightly pressed lips. A wordless complaint that speaks to how pleased he is to find himself awake.

This sound, shoots straight to Lance's stomach. All at once his body is a freaking butterfly _garden_.

“Mmmf,” Keith elegantly supplies. Pulling heavy eyelids open once more, he stretches in the mattress, not unlike a cat. And beside him, Lance feels the slither of muscles waking up. The bough of strong limbs, bending, reaching.

“Well good morning to you too.”

Silence, stiff, drops atop them. Likely they both recall how it is they've ended up here. The haunt of last night. The cry for help. The comfort given so freely. Just because he's no clue _how_ to say thank you, doesn't mean he doesn't want to. And what the heck is he supposed to thank Keith _for?_ For being such a swell friend?

Is that why they're tangled together, air and limb?

“How'd you sleep?” Keith asks.

“Mm. Not bad.”

Understatement of the decade, probably. But Keith doesn't need to know this. There are many things he doesn't need to know. Like how Lance's joints have turned to goo, and that the fluttering inside has yet to stop. The intimacy of the moment is jarring. Like whiplash. Knots in his spine. Tingling in his fingertips.

And they lay there, quiet as time stretches, warps to fit around them. Never being _less._ Just more. More of Keith's warmth steeping through his skin. More of Keith's eyes, a window to be looked through. More of Keith's voice, a note to be sung. _Keith this, Keith that._ All at once, it's too much.

Fortunate for him, this is when his companion rolls away, lumbers from the bed. Leaves the ghost of heat. Leaves Lance's arms hollow.

_Stay._

Keith stalls at the door, and looks back. “You feel up for going on another run?”

“Only if you feel up to _losing_ this time.”

Keith rolls his eyes, and leaves without further comment.

Before Lance can escape the gray comforter that has cocooned him, something blooms in his chest. Pushing from the underground of his heart, open and glorious to look at. Because Lance can't help that he wonders what it would be, for each and every day to start this way.

~

A race to the bridge down the lane ends in a tie. But they don't stop there. Typical them. They keep going, and the sun that simmers in the air, draws a sweat down their necks. Birds cheer from treetops. A black iguana has settled on a crop of rocks to bask at the bend beyond the main road. This is where they finally turn back.

Lance sprints several yards on his own, before he notices that Keith has fallen behind, trudging at the fringe of bushes beside the road. Chest rising with the pant for air. Dark hair sticking at skin.

“What, you tired?” Lance calls.

A shrug. “Just getting my second wind.”

Now that Lance is looking, he sees shadows under eyes, a slump to shoulders previously overlooked. _“How did you sleep?”_ That was the first thing Keith asked this morning. Because _of course._ And Lance? Didn't give a glancing thought to consider perhaps, Keith did not fare as well from their –_ahem–_ arrangement. What if it was the worst night of sleep Keith's gotten in his life? Wouldn't surprise Lance a bit. What with his knees and elbows being so bony, arms so gangly. He probably drooled all over Keith's shoulder too.

Yup. Keith probably hates him now. They'll never share a room again, let alone _a bed._ Lance's mind and feet stumble together at this concept. Of a next time. Keith in his bed. In his arms. In his lungs.

Lance idles long enough for his running companion to catch up, and they settle to a gentle stroll. Not that it could be described as relaxed. Because Lance is trembling. Fingers jitter. Feet scream at him to run. Just _run._ But sooner or later, he's gotta come out and say it. “Thanks. Last night, I mean. You didn't. Didn't _need_ to.”

Festering under his skin, a rush of feelings long bottled up. It spills. Everywhere. Accidentally. Fatally. Because these nerves? This longing? This. . . this _something._ Has been building up for so long, Lance doesn't even remember what it's like to live without it. To live without _him._ And he has long lost hope that he ever will. This something? Whatever it is, whatever he calls it, it remains. Terminal.

“Lance. Of course I did. Wanted to. I mean,” Keith seems to fumble with his words too. “I meant what I said, you know. You shouldn't feel ashamed, or like you're a burden, and you shouldn't have to hide it. Especially. . . from me.”

“Right. Team mates trust each other. I shouldn't have. . . and you're our team leader, so of course I shouldn't have.”

“That's. . . not what I mean.”

_Run. Run now._

Was it a team mate holding him together last night? Was it a friend pressing into every inch of him?

Of course. Of course it was. What else would it be?

“Lance, I–”

“It's cool. You don't have to go and get all sappy on me, Mullet.”

Silence. The _crunch _and _scrape_ of their soles against gravel. A defeated breath. “Yeah. Guess I don't.”

_Run._

His legs beg. Feet shout. Heart chants. All until he caves. He runs, and he doesn't look back. Doesn't stop, until he bounds up the porch steps and hears the _creak_ and _slam_ of the screen door behind him. All so he doesn't have to dwell on thoughts unsaid, a feeling unheard. They are left in dust, just like Keith. Team mate. Friend. _Someone._

_Stay._

Lance forges on, blinks in dimmer light of the hall, as he slips from his shoes and pads toward the kitchen. He is met only by sunbeams bouncing off tile. By windows slotted half open. The ocean calls out to him. Calls his name. And even though there isn't another living soul in the room, he feels the softness of _welcome_ and _good morning_ murmur in his ear. Like the breeze that ripples in curtains. Like whitecaps that toss and foam. Like whistling gulls skimming the seam where water meets sand. Like a roiling sapphire sea that stretches out to a powdery blue sky.

The glass he takes from the cabinet was a favorite as a kid. Now faded, a bit scratched. Still, yellow rays from a cartoon sun with a bright disposition stretch along the outside, and somehow water tastes better from it. Like a shot of nostalgia to hydrate his soul.

After his fill of water, Lance sets out to brew a pot of coffee. The gurgle of the machine breaks the stillness of the house, as it seems he's among the first to rouse this morning. The steady _drip, drip, drip_, pulls him back to thoughts he would rather keep in a jar, tight lidded. Like the _why_ behind this– such a mundane task– because it's not for him. Lance is doing this for Keith. _Lance_ is making _Keith_ his morning coffee. Like it's what he does, day after day. Like it's normal.

_Drip. Drip._ _Plonk._

As if summoned by the heady scent of fresh grounds and bubbling brew, Marco tumbles in. He snatches toast that Lance failed to notice waiting still warm in the toaster and slathers peanut butter over it.

“Morning,” Lance chirps.

“Hey. You're up early,” he mumbles around the crunchy breakfast caught between his front teeth.

“Want some coffee?”

“Sure.” Marco tugs his worn thermos from the cabinet. “I'll take some for the road. Since when did _you_ start drinking this stuff?”

The front door to the house swings in, and shuts. Lance's heart skips. He feels like running all over again. But instead, he stays rooted to the spot, and pours the steaming liquid into his brother's outstretched thermos. “Y'know. People change.”

Oh. _Real_ smooth. Like the cream Marco dumps in before screwing the lid tight. Lance keeps his head ducked as he pours another cup into a tall ceramic mug. Because it is still fact that he does not take coffee. Bad for his skin, makes him jittery, tastes like bark. Same old same old. One thing that _hasn't _changed since he left Earth. His brother has a right to be surprised.

Why should it mean anything, for Lance to make it for a friend? But if that's true, why didn't he just tell Marco the truth in the first place? Since when does he hide stuff from his big brother?

These questions swirl in his head, like heavy white that curls through a dark well, as he stirs in the cream. It might swallow him up. This black monsoon in his bones, going on, and on. Ravenous. Dominating. Makes him feel small, as defenseless as if he's caught weightless in space, in the path of a mighty weblum.

Unfortunate that Lance has no choice but to let the cat out of the bag, so to speak. Keith has crossed the threshold onto ivory tiles. A shimmer of sweat still sticks to him. The fragrance of yellow rosemallow blooms cling to him. The offending mug is in Lance's hands, and he must choose now whether to keep, or to give as intended. The warmth goes directly from the skin of his palms to his heart. Like a dart to bullseye. Pierced once again, when their eyes meet across the kitchen.

_It's just a freaking cup of coffee._

“I. . . made some for you.” Lance holds it at arm's length. “If you want it.”

Keith comes closer, because he hasn't forgotten bodily functions like walking, or talking, or breathing. “Thanks, Lance.”

As the cup passes from one hand to the next, their fingers brush, knuckles bump. And it's super duper great that Keith is holding it now, because Lance most definitely _certainly_ would have lost it right then, and they would all be left with a shattered mug and big watery puddle of Lance. Oh boy.

Lance _refuses_ to look at his brother.

Keith takes a sip, then hums in approval. “So, is this gonna be a regular thing? Cause I could get used to having someone bring me coffee–”

He cuts off, though Lance would swear he was going to go on to say _every day._

Though Lance remains frozen in place, he feels a sensation quite like motion sickness hurtling through his body. Because this is where they are now. The everyday. This could be a future thing. _Their_ future. Dead are the doubts that Lance had, that convinced himself there is nothing to _them._ That there is no hope in dreaming of everyday starting this way. Like today_._

Hope, burns like clouds at sunrise. In heavenly hues, a wild display. Orange. Red. Violet. Blue. Vibrant and breathing. _Today._

~

Lance has committed himself. Dutifully carrying out his task. Entrenched in this fragrance of flowers, this budding colour, elbow deep in dirt. The earth in his hands is cool, beyond the sun's reach. Bare toes curl into this soil, even as warmth pools at the back of his neck, from the midday radiance. His labors, alongside his green thumbed sister in law, result in a budding row of chrysanthemums. Their petals preen with the breeze, hugged by freshly packed earth.

Unlike himself, Lance's niece and nephew and Keith, though tasked with watering the vegetables, have found an entirely different use of the water hose. Now Slyvio points the nozzle not at the garden, but directly at Keith, who has tried and failed to use Nadya's tiny frame as a shield. His classic black tee hangs dripping, clinging in some places, stretched in others, from Nadya's attempts at pulling him about face, so he is in turn her own shelter from the oncoming stream. A far more fruitful endeavor. He sweeps her up in a gale of screeches and giggles, and her bare feet swing about in an attempt to break away.

Lance finds it a much harder task to keep his mind on digging holes and patting roots into place. Even Lisa, kneeling a few bushes down, lets her trowel rest in favor of taking in the scene. She shakes her head, but cannot conceal a smile. Fond. Familiar. As if this is the happenings of everyday life.

“Keith seems to be fitting in well,” she observes.

“Yeah. You're right.” Lance burrows deeper into the dirt with a toothy _scrape _against a stray stone. “I'm glad, too. I mean, it's what I wanted. He's been through. . . a lot.”

“Hm. You both have.”

Not that she's wrong, but Lance doesn't know what to say to this. So he looks again at the three, still wrestling with the hose. Nadya has found and made use of a bucket. Sylvio tackles Keith around the waist, and the two go tumbling into the blanket of green grass. They could not have been more wet had they jumped in the ocean. And despite himself, Lance can't help but smile too. Fond. Familiar. _Something._

After everything Keith's been through, why shouldn't he get a family? Why shouldn't Lance share his? Especially when he gets a front row seat to see just how perfect it all fits. Like a photograph cut to a frame. It's. . . almost too perfect for him to believe it's true.

Lisa runs gentle hands through open leaves. “I am glad too, Lance. For both of you.”

He doesn't know what to say to this, either. So he goes back to digging, and lets his mind get wrapped up in the task, the turn of black earth, the glint of sun off his shovel. This is ill timed, as he does not notice what has crept up behind him til it's much, much too late.

Cold. Water. Gushes down his back. Spatters his skin, his clothes. It goes everywhere. He splutters, and throws the hand with his trowel up, helpless to stop the torrent that has come upon him.

Lisa, who has remained quite dry, bubbles over with laughter. The kids have been left rolling in the grass, in their own fits and giggles. And when the hose peters off, all Lance can think about is how he has been utterly and completely _betrayed._

“KEITH.”

Keith, who doesn't look a bit sorry. Keith, whose eyes catch with a glimmer that is distinctly pleased.

“WHAT. THE. HECK.” Lance throws down his gardening tool, and shoots to his feet. With a stride, he's close enough to jab a finger at Keith's chest, plastered with his black tee. “That was totally foul play! I was, like, planting _flowers, _so excuse you for being so rude and interrupting me while _I'm_ actually getting something done instead of rolling around in the mud.”

Nadya laughs so hard, she's fighting back tears.

“You're just upset I was able to sneak up on you,” Keith says.

Which. Okay, true. But _still._ Lance was concentrating! On the. . . flowers. Okay?

Slyvio gasps for air, and manages to speak through the laughter rolling in his belly. “Tio Keith thought you looked hot in the sun and wanted to help you cool off. Don't you feel cooler now?”

Lance crosses his arms. “Sure. _Okay._”

Keith smiles, because he knows that Lance isn't truly mad about the whole thing. Though there's no point in denying the guy knows how to ruffle his feathers just right. Infuriating. In retribution Lance wrenches the hose from Keith's hand, and pulls the nozzle's trigger, so his attacker gets a spray of water to the face before he's even had a chance to process.

“Lance!”

“Not so funny _now_ is it?”

Keith tries to snatch it back, but Lance sidesteps. Only, he has failed to remember that the ground is slick now, and populated by plants, and so stumbles through a flock of crimson blooms. Gravity yanks his feet from under him. Quick hands catch him around the waist. His backside has been saved from an untimely fall, Lisa's flowers rescued from a crushing weight. But Lance is far from safe, when the world stops spinning and he finds himself in Keith's arms.

An anchor. That's what he is. In more ways than Lance can name. Because he finds that if Keith lets go, his knees will give out, and those honed reflexes and vigorous biceps will have been for nothing. Fingers gone slack, the hose drops to the ground. His hands fly to sturdy shoulders, as he is desperate for balance. Must find his feet again.

“Steady,” breaths Keith.

Now _this._ This is totally unfair.

If Lance weren't tongue tied, if Keith didn't make him so flutter brained, he might have the nerve to drop a line about now. Like “oops! Looks like I almost fell for you.” But this sentiment sinks as fast as it peeked from the rolling sea of conscious thought. Besides. . . it hits just a little close to home to be funny.

Convinced Lance won't go _splat_ in the flowerbed if he lets go, Keith retracts his hands. Leaves the place of contact still tingling beneath a thoroughly doused shirt. Though his legs feel a bit numb, Lance doesn't fall again, in the literal sense.

“We even now?” Keith asks.

Oh. _Far_ from it.

“Who's hungry?” Lisa eases off her knees and brushes some soil off her jeans. “We can have lunch out on the patio out back.”

“I can finish watering the tomatoes, if you like,” Keith says.

She offers a warm smile, and pauses while her kids head on toward the house. “That can wait for now. Thanks, Keith, for all the help. . . and for keeping the little ones entertained. They both adore you, you know.”

“It's not hard. They're. . . easy to love.”

Oh, that Lance could find reprieve for this poor, ill heart of his. Besotted. That's what they call this, right? Feels like indigestion, drug levels of dopamine. Both those being a package deal, of course. If there is a formal diagnosis to be made, it would likely be _love sick._

When Keith's nebulous eyes flick over, Lance can only smile. The ooey gooey type that only means one thing. Easy to love. Easy to fall. And sure, maybe Keith's no mind reader, but Lance almost hopes it reads as something a bit different than friends. A glimmer of something else. Something _more._

~

“Any more dishes?” Lance asks, elbow deep in soapy water.

“Nope. This is everything.” Lisa rests a stack of plates beside the sink with a gentle _clink_. She gives Keith a pat on the back, who is occupied with toweling off a baking sheet. “Thanks for help with clean up, boys.”

They are left alone, the two of them are, to fall into a soft rhythm. _Slosh,_ scrub, _plink_, wipe. Set the item back in its proper home, with the hinge of cabinets and roll of drawers. Even indoors, Lisa has an army of plants. A wispy fern trickles from its pot suspended over the sink, and catches the sunlight as it streams through the window. Soon, Lance's fingers are wrinkled, skin balmy from the steam that willows about.

“Hey I was, uh, thinking.” Lance dips a spatula beneath the bubbly surface, and the water ripples around and back. Keith leans a fraction closer, as he listens. “About the whole. . . y'know. That maybe I should see someone. Get therapy, whatever. Whatever works. Helps me. Helps me get better.”

His chin is down. Voice muted. It's not easy, talking about it. Because he's so afraid of everyone treating him like he'll shatter if jostled. Like he's made of glass or something. If he were, really were made of glass, surely he would've fallen to bits long ago. He knows this. How could he be here, standing here, right now, if he weren't any ounce of strong, resilient, had learned to take a few punches?

Keith lets the towel rest across his shoulder, and leans a hip against the counter as he watches Lance carefully. “I totally want what's best for you,” he says, voice a gentle patter through the kitchen. “Whatever that is. Whatever works for you. Whatever is best, that's what I want too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Keith rests a hand against the marbled surface, only inches away. “And I think. . . I think it's really brave of you, wanting to try.”

A smile. A slosh of dishwater. A squirt of liquid soap, that sends delicate bubbles adrift in the space between them, that has somehow become so small. Lance is completely distracted from what his hands are doing. How could anyone expect him to stay focused with Keith around? Especially when he just casually says stuff like _that._

“Keith?”

“Mm?”

“Do you. . . have you ever thought about what life is gonna be? Now that the war is over, now that we're on the other side of all that. Like, will you stay on Earth? What will you do? Who do you wanna be?”

Because Lance can't let Keith go. Doesn't want to. He can't go back to his lonely shack, with nothing but lizards and tumbleweeds to keep him company. He can't go back to space, and spend his days faceless behind a mask, becoming a Blade. How will they see each other? How will Lance stand not knowing where Keith is? If he's safe? Okay? That he isn't alone?

Something must be showing on his face, because Keith's hand finds a grip on his shoulder. It just all hits Lance hard. Just might need Keith to steady him again. Someone to catch him. Because he doesn't want to let this go. He can't.

“Hey, what's wrong?” Keith asks. “Are you having another attack?”

“No.”

Not in that way. But in others, maybe. Because the concern printed across Keith's face, the depth to his murky eyes is an assault on every inch of self control Lance possesses. Why does he have to go and be that way? Soft. Open. And now, his hand rubs clockwise against Lance's shoulder blade.

Erratic. Heart a thrum in his veins, in his ears, _everywhere._ And suddenly, they aren't close enough. Like last night, when Lance felt everything pressed against him. He wants that again. Needs it, maybe.

Oxygen flutters against his ribs, as if a bird caught in a cage. Free. That's what he needs. What he wants to be. Lance's damp hands slip from the sink, with a _drip, drip._ They wander, until they find the give of flesh, hidden by thin black knit. Trace across stomach, muscles, the lift of lungs that are doing their best to keep up. Soft. Open.

How can he think, wrapped up in this? With Keith so near? Every inch is a chasm demanding to be crossed.

Lance's voice trembles, a whisper. He's breaking. Giving in. “Keith. . .”

“What is it? What do you need?”

Funny. After all this time, he still doesn't get it.

“Keith, I need. . . need _you_.”

The lines of being friends and being something else has been blurred more and more between them. But it isn't enough. Because they never say it. Never show it, in the way it should be. So it all ends up tangled in knots in Lance's head. Is it real? Is he crazy? Could he be the only one between them to feel this way?

“What. . . what are you saying, Lance?”

Lance looks up at his teammate. His friend. His someone. He looks, and he wonders. Could Keith be hiding too? Afraid to speak? Swallowing back all the things unsaid?

Lance wants to ask. Wants to know.

He's on the brink of voicing this, of just coming right out and asking. But then he sees it. He sees it and he knows. If their time together, kidnapped by a magical lion, stranded in space, sparring with bayards, infiltrating a galran base, the wait for a team member to come out of the healing pod after a bad hit, if any of this time has taught Lance _anything_ about this boy, then he knows what he sees.

A spark. Right there, in Keith's eyes. Hot. Burning up. Can't be contained. And it sends every nerve in Lance aflame.

Want. Need. Need who? _Need you._

These lines are blurred no more. Not when Lance's fingers curl into Keith's shirt. Not when he surges forward. Closer. Nearer. Until his lips find warmth. Find Keith.

A first. Their first. First kiss.

At first, Keith is stunned, and rightly so. Because maybe Lance _has_ dreamed all of this up, and he's made a proper mess of everything. Keith inhales sharp, hands flying back to that spot at Lance's waist. But he doesn't pull away. Doesn't push back. Instead, Lance feels a definite tug at the waistband of his jeans. Closer. Nearer. A scrape of teeth. A sound rising from the back of Keith's throat, that says it all over again.

_Need you._

They dive in. Go faster. Plunge deeper.

Honestly, it's enough to send anyone reeling. Lance knows if he stays here long, doesn't get out, he could be forever weightless, might never come back. _Stay. Stay. Stay._ A steely grip on the sink is what helps him out. Stumbling, spinning. It's abrupt, when he pulls back. Bites his lip, and stares at Keith, not knowing what he'll find.

Wow.

Yeah so, they're both a little wrecked.

Keith's skin has bloomed darkly. Swallows thickly. Hands still peeled open, as if to cradle a phantom of him. Of Lance.

Lance runs shaky fingers, still damp with dishwater, through his hair as if somehow, that will undo everything. Make everything neat again.

“Lance–”

Voice raw. Scraping. Cutting. Keith takes a step forward.

Lance flinches back. Hands out, as if to throw up an invisible barrier between them. He can't let Keith come any closer. Not again. Not right now.

“M'sorry. . . I just. Space. I think, I need some time. To think.”

“Lance, _you can't just_. . . and refuse to talk about it. Talk to me–”

Lisa wades back into the room, unknowing of what she's just stumbled into. She has her cell pressed to her ear, the skin between her brows pinched. “How long ago?” A nod. “Don't worry, Luis and I can be on the road in a couple hours. No, no. I want to be there.”

Lance doesn't look at Keith. Doesn't want to. _Can't._

Mostly because Keith is right. He can't “_just” _then shut down. Because that? Yeah. That was real. He still feels the _thump, thump_ in his chest. Fingers itching to find skin again. Lips haunted with that touch.

Lisa ends her call, and takes a weary breath. If Keith or Lance seem a bit rumpled, a bit flustered, she doesn't seem to notice. “Well, that was my brother. My step mom's had a stroke.”

Alarm brings Lance back to the here and now. “Is she alright?”

“They're still holding her at the hospital. Doctors can't be sure if there's any permanent damage until the swelling goes down. . . but it's only a two hour drive to the south side of the island. If I can find someone to stay with the kids tonight, I think I should be there, just until everything clears up.”

“Of course,” Lance says. “We can just stick around. I don't mind.”

Keith offers a nod. “Yeah, we. . . we'll be fine.”

Guilt, a sharp prick. Because Lance totally just volunteered him without asking. And that isn't even the worst of it. Isn't even the first time Lance has jumped first, without asking. Without warning. Spinning. That's what it feels like.

If ever Keith has hated him, now would be the time.

“You're both absolute angels!” Lisa hugs her phone to her chest, and aims a look of _fond_ and _proud_ their way. Which for the record, is totally the opposite of what Lance knows he deserves right now. Lowest of worms, is what he feels. Crawling, corroding, dying, probably. He's like those scummy slimes that gathered on the hull of the Castle. Yeah. He's a space barnacle.

But now is not the time to curl into a ball and wait for the merciful hand of oblivion to take him. He is needed.

“Make sure Slyvio flosses his teeth.”

“Oh, and Mary Poppins needs fresh water.”

Mary Poppins being the resident goat, of course.

“Make sure all the garden tools get put away in the shed.”

“And I _know_ you want to be the fun uncle and all that, but please don't let them stay up _too_ late.”

The list goes on.

Lisa packs an overnight bag. Lance calls in to order pizza for dinner. Luis comes home from work. Keith finishes watering the vegetables. Lisa gives everyone a kiss on the cheek. Lance promises they'll be just fine. Luis loads up the car. Keith lingers in the doorway, while everyone else stands in the driveway, waving as the couple say final goodbyes through the car window. Motor hums. Wheels turn. And away they go.

~

Gooey cheese. Garlic breath. Giggles. This is what it's like, sitting at the table with his niece and nephew. How Lance wishes he could salvage those lost years. How much older they've gotten. Now _he_ is the one that snorts water through his nose at their jokes, and not the other way around. Even Keith laughs hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. And when the kids are with them, it's almost as if it never happened. The kiss. Like it was nothing more than another one of Lance's bad dreams.

But when dusk settles, when shadows of the house creep nearer, when cicadas echo their song in the treetops, Lance catches the way Keith quiets. The way he doesn't look him in the eye. It's nostalgic, in an ill feeling sort of way. Like when they first found the lions, and Keith barely spoke more than two words to anyone but Shiro. It sours everything, in a way. Even though Lance knows it's completely and totally _his fault._ Because _he's_ the one that pushed Keith away.

“_I just need some time to think.”_

Restless, Lance pulls a worn blanket from the hall closet, and calls the kids out to the backyard. A crystal clear summer night beckons to them, to wrap them in its arms. The grass is soft, is sweet.

Stargazing. It solves many a problem. The kids are entertained with the novelty of it. And now, Lance can pretend the reason Keith won't look at him, is because he is preoccupied with the glittering heavens. A glorious view, in all honesty.

There is just something about them that helps Lance see things clearer. Constellations fall into line, thoughts untangle. Magic. Must be. It's been this way since Lance was knee high.

One thing is sure. Lance was wrong to get so caught up in his feelings, that he did not communicate clearly with Keith. Dishonest. Impulsive. Invasive. That's what he was. But that does not change what he feels. It is real. Real as their kiss. The memory sears as heat in Lance's cheeks. Because sure, he might be wrong here, but Keith definitely kissed him back.

What the ever loving quiznak is that supposed to mean?

Sylvio curls to his side, next is Nadya a tangle of limbs. She lies beside Keith, and Lance catches the way their fingers lock together. Cosmo occupies the other side of his master, lying on top of his chest like a pillow. As the air cools, they all hug closer. All safe. All warm.

There is a twist in Lance's chest. Wistful, he takes a deep breath. What if everyday could be this way? What if he had his very own home? His own backyard, to lay in to take in the stars? His own kids, cuddled close. And what if, he could share all of it, _everything_, with another person? What if that person were Keith?

Lance finds his gaze catch. No more do the stars enchant him. For this. Oh this. Lance would trade every celestial body for the one that lies next to him, just beyond reach. And if ever there was fear gnawing at him, then it is now, because Keith's head tilts just so, so Lance finds himself staring into the depths of a forever sky all in silvered wide eyes.

_Run._

“Tell us what it's like, up there,” Sylvio says.

Abruptly, they look away. Promptly, they pretend away, all of this. . . this _something._ Lance and Keith both do. Whatever it is. Unspoken. Lingering.

Instead, they tell stories about space. Because who are they to say no to such a sweet, curious request? Most of their tales feel light on the tongue. Like their first venture to the space mall. Attempts to explain Earth traditions like Christmas to Allura and Coran. That time they'd thought their ship was haunted. Food goo. Slav. The Blades. Plants that sing, from the Kamala System.

The way they tell it, it sounds like an adventure. Like good times. All up until Keith begins to tell them about the Quantum Abyss. Because sure, they had the good times. But that's not all it was. They have the scars to prove it.

Lance listens, and hugs his nephew closer. Because he's not heard this story. Not really. Certainly not the way Keith tells it now.

Voltron. They were a team. His team. So as sick for home as Lance may have been, he never had to go it completely alone. Hunk, Shiro, Coran, Pidge, even Allura, and eventually, Keith too. He can't fathom how much, too much, it would be to spend two years fighting for every day, drifting on the back of a whale. Trapped. Lonely. With nothing to do but watch time wither. No one to call familiar.

Brightening, Keith turns his head to look at the kids. “But, as scary as it was, it gave me time to get to know my mom.”

“And your mom was really an alien?” Nadya does not sound convinced yet.

“Yup.”

“So. . . you're an alien too?”

“Half galra, yeah.”

“That's so cool,” Sylvio chimes. “I'm friends with an actual alien!”

Everyone can't help but chuckle.

“What was your mom like?” Nadya asks.

Lance freezes. All he wants is to take this back. So Keith doesn't have to go there. Doesn't have to remember, if he doesn't want to. But Keith doesn't hesitate.

“She was one of the most courageous people I've ever known.”

Keith goes on. Listening to him talk, so soft, almost as if he's spinning for them a fairy tale, a lullaby, makes Lance's eyes grow heavy, limbs light. And he's not the only one. Soon enough, he catches sight of yawns and droopy eyes all around.

“Alright everyone. Vamonos. I think it's time for bed.”

There is little complaint from anyone, as Lance rolls up the blanket. He heads inside, with Nadya riding piggy back, and Keith carrying Sylvio similarly. Showers and pajamas ensue. There is singing and tickles and a pillow fight. Lance must remind Sylvio to floss _twice_ before he gets around to it. A glass of water. Tuck into beds. Goodnight kisses to foreheads. And then, a _click_ of the lightswitch.

“Buenas noches.”

“Good night, tio Lance. Good night, tio Keith.”

The house falls quiet.

Luckily, Lance and Keith thought to bring a change of clothes along, so there is no need to go back to his parent's house to get some. Changed into fresh shorts and tee, teeth recently brushed, Lance sits on the edge of the bed, on top of a cloudy white and spotless duvet. The throw pillows are either a yellow weave or fuzzy teal that reminds him of Cosmo's mane. He flops onto his back, and stares at the ceiling fan, as it makes its lazy rounds. _Swish. Swish._

So when he said _oh sure, Lisa, we'd love to stay the night with the kids,_ Lance supposes he didn't really understand what that would entail. Because there is no spare bedroom in this house. Which means _you know._ Sharing. With Keith.

Lance groans.

Then does the only thing he can. He folds laundry.

The basket is just sitting in the corner, all fresh and unfolded, and his hands are in desperate need of _something._ So he settles cross legged onto the carpet, and rolls socks and sorts the differing sizes of shirts. Methodical. Precise. The subtle cotton and lavender scent soothes him. Yes. So, this won't solve all his problems _maybe_ but it serves as an excellent distraction. All until he hears the hushed _tap tap_ of knuckles against the door, which has been left ajar.

“Lance?”

For the briefest of moments, he _actually_ considers tucking and rolling under the bed to hide. But he can't. Lance can't hide anymore. Not from Keith.

“Yeah?”

The door hums on its hinges, as it swings further inward. Keith seems small, lingering at the threshold. Feet shift between hardwood and shag carpet. He does not come closer. “I uh, thought I could take the couch. I don't mind.”

Timid. Kind. So soft that it just melts him. Because Keith is doing precisely what Lance asked for, isn't he? Giving some space. Time to think.

“Or. . . you could stay.”

The thing is, Lance doesn't need it. He's had enough. Enough of time, of space, of thinking. Because Lance already _knows._ He wants Keith to stay. Needs it, maybe. So he holds his breath. Waits. _Stay, stay, stay. Stay with me._

“You don't mind?”

And okay. Keith almost sounds relieved? Though whether it's because of Lance or the couch is yet to be determined.

“No. You can stay.”

The mattress gives, as Keith takes a seat on the opposite side of any rumpling that Lance had left behind. Stiff. Hands curled to fists. He's probably waiting for Lance to say something. And boy, does Lance have a lot to say. It just all gets tangled in his mouth, like aunt Agnes' colourful knitting yarn in knots. The roof of his mouth goes dry, and all that stuff he wanted to say? Trapped.

Keith sifts under the covers. Adjusts his pillow. Stills. And then, he reaches a hand out to the lamp at his bedside table. _Click._ That side of the room darkens.

Lance slumps. He finishes folding a pair of Luis' jeans and scoots the basket back to its home near the closet. Then he does the only thing he can. He goes to bed. Tugs the duvet to his chin. Silent. Only his lamp remains, the only brightening of the room. _Click._ The room falls black.

Here, is not unlike space. Because here, Lance finds himself adrift. Nothing to hold on to. Both occupants of the bed lay stiff. Inches of sheet apart. Not like before. . . Not like last night. And the night stretches on. Perhaps to never end, not unlike the whirling galaxies. His breath comes deeper, slower, but Lance's head keeps spinning and spinning. Thinking about Keith. The future. Space. Earth. All of it. But there is one thing he keeps coming back to. The very idea of letting Keith go, of living without him sounds a lot like trekking into space without oxygen.

No. Lance can't do it.

_Need you._

_CLICK._

All at once, Lance finds the lamp's switch. He lurches up from the bed, as candle like light pushes back against the darkness. Because Lance can't keep quiet a second longer. Can't.

_Need you._

Keith jolts too. “Lance! What's wrong? Was it a dream? Are you okay–”

“I know this might not be the best time, but I just need to say first of all that I'm sorry. Like, really sorry. About earlier, you're right. That was super uncool of me. I can't just. . . I just _did it_ and didn't give you a warning or anything. And after I didn't know what to say. Because you're my best friend. And it's just such a mess, that it all gets tangled in my head, so I never know what to say, or if I should say _anything at all_, but I'm telling you now because I don't want to keep secrets anymore. I can't.”

Keith blinks. Silver tongued as ever.

“And I. . . meant what I said. And there's so much I can't say. Because,” Lance chokes on his words, because okay, he's crying now. _Wow. _That must be super sexy. “Because you mean so much, Keith. So fucking much, that I can't _even tell you.”_

And with that, Lance promptly turns the light off, and throws himself back into bed, as far beneath the covers as he can go. Perhaps there is a part of him that thinks now he's apologized, told the truth, Keith will forgive him, and they'll move on. Sure, _maybe_ it's awkward for a while, but since when was their relationship without its little bumps and sharp turns? They'd be okay, eventually, Lance hopes. And maybe he can get up in the morning and pretend nothing happened. That would be the easy thing. Right? Put on a nice big smile. Laugh when he's supposed to. Roll with the punches.

_Click._

Keith has turned his lamp on, and sits up to loom over Lance, who still curls beneath the blanket. Barely does Lance have the courage to look up and meet those stormy eyes. If not for this hushed light, he might have believed that was a blush inching over Keith's skin. The shadows lean about them, and beyond the curtained windows, cicadas chant on. _Cree. Cree._

“Do you really mean all of that?” Keith asks, finally.

Lance manages a nod. Rustles the sheets. Breathless. Jaw locked.

A sigh. “I don't believe this. . .”

“Well it's true!” Lance shoots back. It feels too vulnerable having to look straight up at him, so Lance bolts up and fixes Keith with a ferocious glare. “Why would I lie about something like that?”

“You mean when you kissed me, you did it, because you wanted to?”

“Why _else would I kiss you, Keith?_ For gosh sakes! Why is that hard for you to believe? You're Keith. You're amazing. And you don't even know it. _Wow._ How on Earth did you manage getting the Team Leader spot with such a thick skull?”

Keith snags him by the wrist, as Lance has been waving his hands in frustration as he talks. “Okay, _okay._ I get it. I'm an idiot.”

With this admission, the quiet returns. Lance squirms. Can't be helped. Because who can guess what's going on behind that “thick skull” right now. And, with fingers digging at his skin, Keith has yet to release his arm. Maybe he's forgotten to?? Maybe now, it's time for Lance to give Keith space. Some time. Some time to think.

“So does that mean. . . you would kiss me again?” Keith asks.

“I mean, I wouldn't if you didn't want me to. I won't pull something like that ever again, _trust me.”_

“I do.”

Lance blinks. “You do?”

“Yeah.”

“Trust me?”

“No–” Keith's voice drops. Hushed. Timid. “I mean, yes. But I mean, I do. Want you to. Kiss me, I mean.”

“. . . You do.”

“_Yeah,”_ Keith huffs.

“Okay. . . so.”

Now Lance may have a bit of empathy for Keith, because he finds himself a bit stunned. Unbelieving. Because Keith _wants_ to kiss him? Since _when?_ How? Okay, maybe he shouldn't be so surprised but–

Lance jolts. Keith has let go of his wrist in favor of cupping both sides of his face. Shifting closer. The mattress gives. Lamplight is a halo around them. The world, it just seems to stop. Because this is the second that Keith presses lips to Lance's slack mouth. This is the second. _Their _second. Their second kiss. One of many, Lance can't help but hope.

They get to touch each other. Kiss each other. Like they've both wanted for ages. And there is something about letting everything spill out. Every touch. Every gasp. Every tear. They catch it all together, as they are wound in an embrace. Keith is so close. Soft. Open.

Lance's fingers, nimble, eager, find a trail through thick, inky air. Keith hums in approval. But Lance does not stop there. His hands find broad shoulders. Muscle. Find the pulse of a wildly beating heart beneath a sturdy chest.

They break for air. Pant. Swallow. Thick. Racing. Touch.

Eyes heavy, lidded, Lance drinks this sight in. Reverent, is this moment. Keith brushes a thumb over Lance's cheekbones. Tracing. Memorizing. Swipe at a reddened lower lip.

“Lance.” A whisper, caught between them alone. “You have _no idea_ how much. . . how much I've wanted. Wanted this. You. But I could never tell you. I'm just, not good with words.”

Lance leans into his touch. “Maybe you don't need words. Maybe I get it already, Keith.”

Never have their eyes been so open to each other. There is no wall. No fear. They feel it. They treasure it.

Keith takes this advice to heart. Maybe right now, they don't need words. He closes in. _Closer_. Urging Lance down, toward the bed, flattening to his back. And he kisses, again and again. Presses closer and closer. Until they are flush. Chest and hips. Legs wound together. Their bodies blend together. It's like a song. A harmony, for them alone.

It's in this moment that Lance recalls he doesn't have an added layer of boxers beneath his shorts. And he's not convinced that Keith does, either. But he's not sure it even matters, when they align, and pressure, connection, sends a wave of pleasure washing over him. Unlike anything they have experienced together before. Lance can't help, how his teeth catch at the soft, pliable flesh of Keith's lips. His hips snag, rise up, searching for more.

Keith tenses around him, and sinks his face against Lance's shoulder, as he is lost in this feeling. _Need you. _Teeth clench around a moan, and then his voice breaks. Rugged. Pleading.

“Lance. . . are you sure?”

A wet kiss. Lance hums into heat flushed, pale skin, and winds his arms around the steady weight that presses him deeper into softness of the mattress. “I've never been more sure of anything before, Keith,” he whispers, like a prayer.

Heads muddy. Nuzzling closer. They set their own pace. Drunk on this touch. Dizzy in these arms. And it's _so much._ It's everything. And it's real. Not like scars. Not like fairy tales. Not like battles, like lions. They are here, and Lance can't think of how far he's come to get here. Only that now, Keith is his.

Teammate. Best friend. _Someone_. Someone to hold, to save. Someone to love.


	4. Day Three Hundred and Seventy One: Who We Become

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: intense doses of fluff! reader beware. . .
> 
> this will be the final chapter!

Home.

What is it, exactly? A cracked shanty, sinking ever deeper amidst the waves of a desert? Crowded wards of children, always shifting, never stable? An island, sitting as a studded jewel, green against sapphire? A castle in the sky?

Keith has certainly seen enough to know what a home _isn't._ So he gets it. Knows that a home– a home is _this._

Leaky roof. Door that jams. Window cracked. Muddy pawprints that pepper the floor. Lance's many _many_ products littering the bathroom sink. Waking up to the smell of coffee. Every day.

These little things make everyday special. A treasure. But maybe today is a little _extra_ special. Not just because it's the four month anniversary of the purchase of their first house, but mostly because they will host the McClain clan in its entirety for the very first time. It's Papi's 50th birthday, and Lance wants it to be perfect. Mostly. Most of all, he wants it to be special.

Keith already knows that it will be. Doesn't matter if the rolls burn, if aunt Agnes and Luis get into another squabble, if Cosmo leaves hair on the couch, or if they sing Happy Birthday off key. Call it a hunch, if you like. But Keith simply knows.

With the final balloons blown and tucked into place, Keith hops from the stepladder. Streamers in red and blue billow, as the salt breeze creeps through open windows. The house smells glorious, curtesy of Papi's birthday cake. A cake Keith and Lance made together, per Hunk's specific instructions. It is their friend's original recipe, of course. They simply _had_ to do it justice.

Lance is putting the final touches on it, bag of bright blue icing in hand. Almost doesn't hear Keith enter the kitchen, as he's so very concentrated. He lays with care the _a_ in _happy._

“The decorations are all ready.” As Keith draws close, he lets a hand fall to the small of Lance's back. “Is there anything else on the list?”

“Hm. Just the cake. Oh, and the punch. But we can set that out later, when people arrive. So it stays nice and _frosty.”_ He punctuates this with a sticky finger to Keith's nose. _Boop._ Leaves behind a smudge of indigo. “Maybe you should shoo, so I don't get _distracted.”_

“Distracted?” Keith takes this as incentive to wrap his arms tightly around his entirely beautiful, absolute goofiest, most _wonderful_ boyfriend. A hug from behind. A nuzzle into soft skin at the nape of his sunkissed neck. Not to be outdone, he lays a quick peck there. Smells the vanilla that lingers around him. He breathes it all in. Lance. Home. Bright frosting. “Are you saying that _I_ might distract _you?”_

By some stroke of luck, Lance is saved from further wandering hands and slowly simmering kisses by the beckon of the doorbell. _Din din._

“Ha!”

Keith pouts, but relents. Retreats. “Guess I should get that. . .”

Cosmo beats him to the door, tail a flurry, though it's hardly a fair race. She seems as excited as anyone for the big day. When he answers, Veronica is standing on their stoop, all prim and lovely in an ivory blouse with freshly trimmed hair that curls to frame her wide, beaming smile.

“Hey, Veronica. Uh, bienvenido a nuestra cas–”

“C'mere, you.” She finds a grip on his shirt, tugging him in for a great big hug. Like she might never let go. Like she's just flown all the way from the states to see them. Like this is the first time she's seen their home since they repainted, and Lance finally_, finally_ decided what color sofa he wanted for the sitting room. “You've no idea how glad I am to be home.”

Home.

“Maybe I do.”

~

Small. _So_ small. Little fingers. Little heartbeat. Keith gets to hold it all in his arms. The latest edition to the McClain family. Baby April. Warm like spring showers. Pink flushed cheeks like fresh blossoms. Perfect. Special. _Very_ special.

And she is quite popular, quite the talk of the party. Born a week after Keith and Lance moved into this house. Since they only live seven miles away, they were the ones Luis called when Lisa went into labor two minutes past midnight. They stayed with Sylvio and Nadya that night. Got to tell them the next morning they had a healthy baby sister, and that Nadya is no longer the shortest McClain. Got to drive them to the hospital to see her.

Everyone wants a chance to coo and cuddle.

“C'mon, Keith,” Marco says. “Stop hogging her.”

“She likes me.”

“_Sure.”_

Kids run through the house, playing some sort of tag and chase game with fallen balloons, adults sit with coffee at the table, people spread everywhere through the house like confetti. Aunt Agnes is telling Lance how much she likes the paint they chose for the walls. This is _quite_ the compliment, coming from her.

“I think it's time for grandpa to get a turn holding the little one,” Papi says, from his spot in the lazy chair.

Keith can hardly argue, it being his birthday and all. So he hands off little April, her eyes dipping closed, worn out from so much socializing. Understandable. Their family is a lot to take in. Keith still remembers meeting everyone for the first time. Overwhelming didn't quite cover the range of emotions. But he hopes she knows, somehow in that little beating heart, that this is where she belongs. Family. Home.

Cosmo seems a bit overwhelmed as well. When she gets wind of her master, amidst all the strange smells, she lopes to his feet and offers a damp nose against the palm of Keith's hand. Fingers dig a familiar path through a starry mane, and her tail bats a steady rhythm of approval.

“So, how are you and Lance settling in here?” Papi asks.

Everything that his son is not, this man is still a bit of an enigma to Keith. Quiet. Sage. Face weathered, beard frayed like an old sea dog. He tucks April's little head against the shoulder of a button up shirt, a whirlwind of colors that are reminisce of Lisa's flowerbeds. If ever he does speak, there is a certain undercurrent to his words. As if he always means more than he says. Saying something without coming outright to say it. Sending Keith to frail attempts at mapping it all out in his head, to find the buried treasure at the end of the road.

Curling his fingers fondly through a spike of teal fur, Keith nods. “Good, I think. Really good.”

Yet his mind sticks on that word. _Settled._ Is that what he is? Is Keith settled, really? Is this something he's truly able, even capable of feeling? The past year flew by fast. Real fast. And as such, he's not stopped long enough to think about it in these terms. It all still feels fresh. Like it was only yesterday he stepped through the threshold of the McClain's home and stepped into Mamá's welcoming arms.

If he thinks back, maybe it hit him a little, when Lance started talk of buying a house. It meant choosing. Choosing each other. To live, to share, to stay. That they wanted something stable. Isn't that what it meant?

Settled.

Does that mean this is where he wants to be? Where he wants to stay? Never to get that itch to run, to hide, to start over. Anchored in one place. When he thinks about it that way, maybe the answer is yes. Because this is home. Why wouldn't he stay? Why wouldn't he settle?

It doesn't mean perfect. Keith still struggles to communicate his feelings. Still fears abandonment. Left behind. Invisible. Alone. And Lance still wrestles with showing his scars. Those wounds, and every little way he's imperfect. But they have seen the best of each other, the worst of one another, and Keith wouldn't trade any of it, any part of Lance for anything.

Just like the sticky door. The leaky roof.

Keith's gaze snags on April once more, his head feeling incredibly soft, vulnerable. What if one day, Papi gets to hold another new grandchild? _His._ Lance. Keith. They could have their own family. Sure, it might seem a distant dream now. And it's not as if Lance has brought it up. But Keith knows it's something he wants. Both do, he thinks. He knows Lance would make a kickass dad for sure. Helping with homework, braiding hair, packing lunches with grapes and animal crackers, playing ball or painting nails. They'd do it together like they do everything else. A team.

What if this is the place that Keith never leaves? What if Lance is the person that never goes?

Settled.

It starts, a thin tendril of something that is very much alive. A seed, embedding in his heart.

~

The moon hangs high in the sky, when he wakes. An opal amidst velvet twilight. The night is clear. Crisp. Silvery shadows crawl from the bedroom window across the bed and against the wall.

It's not uncommon for Keith to find himself roused in the night. While Lance has gotten so much better, hasn't suffered an attack for months now, there are still the sleepless nights, the dreams. But this time, that's not why he's awake. Lance still sleeps, drawn out breath. Steady. Long legs, sprawled across the mattress. Slack. Hair, ruffled by his pillow. Soft. Tiny slivers of moonlight caress his skin. Fall across shuttered eyes.

No. Keith is awake, _wide awake_, because he is restless. Knowing somehow, he won't be able to fall back to sleep, he overturns the duvet and slips bare feet to the floor. Drifts from the bed, from Lance. Pulled by some unseen force, a moth to a flame, Keith tugs the sliding doors of the closet back, with as little sound as possible. On the top shelf, far in the corner, wrapped up, is where he finds what he's after. The thing that's pulled him. He takes it, and he leaves. Through the darkened house, through the door into a crystal clear night.

He pauses here, at the doorstep to unravel the cloth wound around the object. Reveals a blade that catches moonlight like a prism. Cold luxite. It does not shine the way it used to.

The sky is vast over him, as he walks on. Looming. Swallowing him up. There is a path that snakes through woods, down rocks. Crawls along sand, soon leading to a tiny inlet. This has never been a beach large enough to draw more than the occasional curious kids or clandestine couple. In a way, it almost feels like it's theirs. The nearest neighbors are quite elderly, never bother with the tangled, steep trek to get here.

Then a huge, loping shadow shoots across the sand. And Keith certainly would have jumped for fright, if not for the familiar doggie pants that give the cosmic wolf away. She chases the retreating waves, before they roll back, and leave her mane soggy with salt water. This is her beach too, and she treats it like a friend.

Keith looks at the ocean. Black. Disordered. Feels like that– the swirling, the searching. Run forward. Fall back.

Keith looks at the blade. Dark. Forgotten. Felt like that, once.

All his life, he's held onto this knife. Thinking it was the only tie to his family. To someone that loved him. So little did he have, of things that were _his._ He held onto it. Tight. But now? Isn't it just a reminder of _leaving_ and _loss_ and of all the ways his parents let him down? Have let him go?

He's not meant to be a Blade. Not meant to be like Krolia. Certainly not like his dad. And crazy as it sounds, not like Shiro either. Maybe to be who he's meant to, he has to let it go. All of it. So he can stay. So he can settle in. Settle _home._

So he winds back his arm, and throws it as far as he can, to drown beneath the rippling sea, never to be seen by human sight again.

_Poof._

Cosmo manages quite the leap, catches it in midair.

_Poof._

Appearing once more, at his side. Copper eyes smile. Tail weaves a familiar trail, as if she is proud of herself. As if she's done something amazing. Heroic. Admirable.

Perhaps Sylvio has finally gotten the concept of fetch into that fur brained skull.

Keith is not nearly so pleased. “No, girl. Give it here.”

And though he tries to pry it from her jaw, she tugs back, grip sure. She shakes out her fur, and splatters cold water in his face. They scuffle in the sand. She bolts just out of reach and waits. Grinning. It's a game to her.

“Cosmo, sit. _Stay.”_

“Keith?”

He whirls around and watches another shadow coming from the trees. Lance is barefoot, tucked in his Altean bathrobe. The moonlight does beautiful things against his skin, to those eyes. For a flickering moment, Keith almost believes he's dreamt this up. But oh, how very truly real Lance has always been.

“Uh. . . hey.”

Lance sidles closer. “You and the pup taking a midnight stroll, or what?”

Keith is bad at lying. The two of them found this out quite swiftly. After they began this wild thing together. This relationship. Letting someone in. Someone that knows you. Keith can't fool Lance for anything now.

When Lance holds a hand out to Cosmo, she yields the knife without hesitation. So unfair. Keith is the one that _raised_ her. What has Lance ever done to deserve being the favorite? Unbelievable.

Lance turns the blade over. Looks troubled. Worried. Worried for him. Keith doesn't want him to be. Wishes he'd stayed in bed. Asleep. Blissful and unaware. Because Keith is used to taking care of stuff on his own. Grew up that way. He's not used to sharing ghosts.

“What were you doing with _this?”_ Lance asks.

It is not accusing. Only soft. Steeped with that care. That very real care that Lance has for him. Keith can't carry it. Can't hold all of it. Crumbling. Tripping. A ragged breath escapes, and he doesn't have the words.

“Hey, hey. Are you okay?” Lance swoops closer. A touch. Gentle. Draws him closer. Keith lets him. Lets Lance wrap him up in those arms. Fingers, light on his chin. Tip. A familiar motion, by now. Because Lance has a habit of wanting to look him right in the eye. “What's going on up there, huh?”

“I don't know. . . I just. Need.” Keith can't lie. Doesn't know how to get it out. To tell him. “Need to let everything _go.”_

Glancing at the knife, Lance frowns. “You mean this?”

A nod.

A wind, coming in from the east blusters against them, catches the corner of Lance's robe and rifles through Keith's hair. The night is clear, but in his head, it's all a storm.

“Okay.” Lance inhales. _“Okay.”_

The cool press of luxite against Keith's palm. Fingers curl, a weight so familiar, yet _foreign._ “I think. . . this is something I have to do.”

Lance finds purchase on his shirt, tugs him in for a kiss. Warm. Hushed Lasting for only a moment. A simple affection that sends Keith's heart aching, blood racing, only because it reminds him how much love he has for this boy. They don't even have to say it. It passes between them, silently, potent and fierce. And it makes Keith feel brave. Brave enough to stand and face the sea.

Though it takes him a second to work himself up to going through with it. Keith slides Cosmo a side eye. Suspicious. _Warning._ But perhaps now that Lance is present she'll behave.

A fluid motion, shoulder, arm, release. Away it sails. A glint. A _splash._ Into the deep it goes. Free. And soon, to settle on the sea bed.

It's nothing more than that. Maybe it's small. Maybe it's silly. Keith has effectively dragged the entire household out to the shore in the dead of night. All for what?

_This._

It hits the mark. Chest filling with air. Free. Light. Somehow, it's profound.

Because somehow, he knows. He doesn't ever have to go back. He is _here._ Settled. Home. And no matter the pieces of puzzle some might point out and call missing, Keith doesn't feel hollow. All of the pieces he could ever possibly need, he already has. And all at once, he feels just like the clear heavens pooling over his head, dripping in starlight. Bright. Free.

When he turns back to Lance, he see misty blue eyes. Lance swipes the silky sleeve of his robe to erase the tears, as if they were never there in the first place. Then brightly, says, “You wanna grab a couple glasses of milk and some leftover birthday cake?”

Keith draws close, finds an eager hand, and their fingers thread together as they make their way back down the path. “Cake? Do you even know what time it is? Good thing we don't have kids, or we'd be setting a terrible example.”

“Yeah.” Lance rolls his eyes. “Good thing.”

“Hey, Lance?”

“Hm?”

Twigs snap under their feet. Cicadas crow from the treetops. _Cree. Cree. _Cosmo has run far ahead, not heeding the trail, just the glimmer of teal that peeks from behind brush. Her darker fur blends with the shadows well. Then, she is gone, in a haze of glitter.

Keith wonders if they might be the only souls awake for miles and miles. Just him and Lance. His hand gives a squeeze. Outpours from these feelings bubbling in his chest. Big. Clear.

For once, Keith knows exactly what he wants to say. “I. . . I think. I want kids.”

Lance freezes.

“I mean, not _right now._ But. Someday. If you. . . you'd help me. I couldn't do it alone. But together. I think. . . we'd make a good team.”

Keith lets him think. Lets Lance consider. Perhaps now wasn't the best time to bring it up. But he couldn't not. It just _was._ It's true. He clings tightly to Lance's hand. Waits. Because when Lance has something to say, Keith will certainly know.

“Yeah. You're right. We do make a good team.” As the trail narrows, Lance bumps a shoulder against his. Sends a soft smile his way. Illuminated in dim light, as it filters through the trees. Then, a whisper. “I think I want that too, Keith.”

Never has Keith felt so. . . so _something._ Yeah. Maybe he'll never be good with words. But maybe, he doesn't need more than these three. Small. Potent.

“I love you.”

Maybe they don't need words at all. Not when they fall still at a cleft of rock, that juts out, that cuts a view across the fringe of the island, curtained by night. Not when their hands find each other, know exactly what places they long to touch. Keith presses in, lips finding a now familiar target. In return, Lance gives the loveliest, shyest catch of breath.

If Lance were the sea, then Keith has gone from the dip of toes all the way to the deep end. And if Lance were the sea, Keith is quite certain he would never step on dry land ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr @shyflowersbloom  
check out my other fics for [ a quantum abyss au ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17054180/chapters/40098596) or [ a cute college roommates au!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22441636/chapters/53620273)


End file.
